Chuck vs The End of History
by Rational Expectations
Summary: Season 3 AU. Starts from the very end of Season 2, but quickly goes in a very different direction. There is no Prague, and no Shaw. But Team Bartowski must face dueling threats from both the Ring and the United States government. And, in this AU, the Ring aren't inept cartoon villains, but cunning, deadly, and morally ambiguous adversaries. (COMPLETE)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So here's my attempt at a Season 3 AU. It's basically what would have happened if I ran the show. This is more or less a complete AU. Some ideas may overlap with canon, but events will play out very differently. Daniel Shaw does not exist in this AU or, if he exists, he plays no part in this story. But a different character will be written in who will serve in a somewhat similar "mentor" role to Chuck.

This is, in some sense, a more traditional fanfic than what I've done before (i.e., Sarah is alive). The biggest, most original twist that I haven't seen in previous writings, is my take on the Ring. I've always preferred complicated, morally ambiguous villains to cardboard mustache twirlers.

Also, I will need help to finish this story - if there's not demand, I may not continue. Beyond that, I've got the general plot lined out but may need help filling in some details and would appreciate ideas. And, if anyone wants to volunteer to beta read something, wonderful!

Separately, if someone would post to the Facebook group, that would be great! And I see there's an author Q&A going on. If someone wants to ask me something, send me a PM and I'll be happy to reply.

Needless to say, I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, and I'm not making any money from this.

* * *

"_So what happens after the End of History?" – Sarah Walker_

"Guys, I know Kung Fu," Chuck declared. He spoke, scared but triumphant, as he towered over the unconscious bodies of six defeated Ring agents, inside the destroyed Intersect room. Casey and Sarah looked on in shock.

"Chuck, what happened? Are you ok?," Sarah asked. She ran towards him and gave him a small hug.

"Yeah, I think," Chuck responded, then stammered "um. . ." He tried to finish his answer, but couldn't. His eyes twirled inside his head, then circled towards the ceiling. He collapsed. Only Sarah's embrace prevented his body from crumbling to the floor. She captured him in her arms, and gently let him down.

Her eyes zoned out, transfixing themselves on Chuck's crumpled body. It could have been minutes. But it was probably only fractions of a second before Casey jumped in. "Walker! Snap out of it."

Sarah shook her head and regained focus. She checked his pulse, then his breathing. She learned her head upon his chest, placing her ear by his heart to confirm a steady beat.

"He appears fine, for the moment. Just passed out. But we've got to get him medical attention." Sarah explained.

Casey shook his head no. "We can't, not now. Too risky. You know that."

Casey peered across the room at the knocked-out Ring agents, then turned his gaze towards the corpse that used to be Bryce Larkin. It was slumped against the wall. Just then, Casey heard a grunt. It was Miles. The traitorous scum who betrayed him, killed his unit. Miles was stirring to life from unconsciousness.

Casey walked over to Bryce's body. He opened Bryce's jacket and grabbed Bryce's pistol.

"No witnesses." Casey announced coldly, formally. He fired, and put a bullet in Miles' skull. Then Casey marched methodologically around the room, executing the unconscious Ring operatives one-by-one.

"Casey, is that necessary? We need information." Sarah asked.

"No one must know what happened here." Casey barked back. He looked down tenderly at the unconscious Chuck, resting in Sarah's arms on the floor. "For the kid's sake."

Casey continued. "Walker, this facility is beyond top secret. Look around. There are no cameras in this room. No surveillance, no record of what took place. The CIA, the NSA, couldn't risk footage leaking, exposing the project. So we can write our own story."

Casey spun back towards Bryce, wiped off the gun, and placed it in Bryce's still warm hands. "Walker, here's how it went down. Whomever they were, they got the drop on Bryce. Heroically, he was able to destroy the Intersect to keep it from them. He killed six of their agents. But, unfortunately, he got shot in the process. He died a hero. The two of us walked in, found this mess."

"Ok," Sarah said softy, also dismissively. She had already refocused her attention on Chuck. She sat, absorbed in his motionless body. She massaged his forehead with one hand, while instinctively playing with his hair with the other.

Casey barked. "Walker, cut it. We need you sharp. He needs you sharp."

Sarah shook her head, trying to suppress the worry in her heart. She knew Casey was right. Righting herself, she picked Chuck up, and supported him on her shoulders. "Casey, help me with him." Hearing her, Casey came over and the two agents supported Chuck between their shoulders.

"Castle?" Sarah asked.

"Can't. It's compromised. Miles, the scumbag, he killed my men there. We have to assume his people know about it. We need to go to ground. Fast. Sort everything else out later."

"Not without getting Chuck help." Sarah responded. Casey nodded affirmatively.

Supporting Chuck, they dragged him to the facility's parking garage. They grabbed one of the company cars - a two-year old dark grey Honda Accord. The perfect getaway car. Far less conspicuous than a Porsche or an old Crown Vic. They sped towards Echo Park. Once on the way, Sarah called Devon. It was a risky move. The lines weren't secure. But he was one of two doctors nearby that they could trust. And the other one didn't know her brother was a spy.

"Devon, it's Sarah. Grab Chuck's father and your medical bag and meet us out front in five minutes." Sarah exclaimed frantically into the phone.

Devon ducked into a corner of the courtyard, out of earshot of anyone.

"Whoah, Sarah, you realize it's my wedding night, right? The reception's still going on."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's Chuck. Make up an excuse for Ellie, she can't know."

Devon stared across the courtyard at his wife, then spoke into the phone. "This is about his other life then?"

"Yes," Sarah responded.

"And his father too?" Devon inquired.

"Yes. Him too." Sarah replied.

"Roger that." Devon answered, then hung up the phone.

He ran towards Ellie and told her the first lie that crossed his mind. "Babe, I'm so sorry, I've got to go to the hospital."

"What? It's your wedding night. It's _our _wedding night." She answered, bewildered.

Devon grasped her arms affectionately. "I know. But a heart just became available for transplant. If we don't do it now, the patient ... we'll lose him."

"Isn't there another heart surgeon on call?" Ellie pleaded.

Devon verbally fumbled, trying to expand his lie. "Yeah, um, he just had a heart attack. Ironic, I guess. But there's no one else Babe. I've got to go. They're already sending a car to pick me up."

Ellie looked into his eyes, wrapped him in a hug and said "Go."

Devon dashed towards Stephen Bartowski, whispered a few words into his ear, then ran into the apartment to grab his medical bag. Stephen, in turn, sped towards Ellie.

"Ellie, I'm sorry, something has come up," he exclaimed.

"You too?" She asked. Stephen nodded at his daughter and scampered off. Ninety seconds later, he and Devon were waiting at the curb.

Ellie noticed the spectacle. "Why are Devon and my father leaving together? And to go to a heart transplant? And why did Devon grab a medical bag to go to the hospital?" she asked herself. As the pair entered the car, Ellie observed the bizarre scene from the distance. And, from the corner of her eye, she could swear that she saw Sarah Walker sitting in the front passenger seat.

"Devon, Mr. Bartowski, get in," Sarah exclaimed, "Chuck's in the back." Devon and Stephen saw Chuck resting comfortably in back seat behind the driver. He looked like he was sleeping. Devon, the doctor, entered first, taking the middle seat next to Chuck. Stephen followed quickly behind them. As soon as the door closed, Casey immediately hit the petal and sped off.

"Where are we going?" Devon asked.

"NSA safe house, about 90 minutes out of town. We'd prefer something more anonymous, but there are medical supplies and equipment there, in case you need it. What's up with the Nerd?" Casey responded.

From the back of the car, Devon did what he could — checking his eyes, his ears, his pulse.

"From what I can tell, he seems fine. Just sleeping. But I don't have the right equipment, we'd need tests. Can you tell me what happened?" Devon asked.

"Need to know, Devon." Casey replied.

"I need to know." Stephen answered, jumping in.

"And if I'm going to be treating him, I do too," Devon answered.

"He — downloaded something." Sarah said. Casey immediately interjected. "Walker, don't."

"He downloaded the 2.0, didn't he?" Stephen asked. Casey grunted affirmatively.

"Downloaded, what do you mean, downloaded?" Devon asked, dumbfounded.

Sarah tried to explain. "There's this program, it downloads information directly into your brain. Chuck's has it for awhile. He got a new version tonight. It . . . It taught him to fight. He took out six guys singlehandedly."

"Chuck? Chuck did that?" Devon inquired, stupefied.

"Yeah, but right after he finished, he just collapsed. He's been like that since."

Devon stared blankly. "Um, guys, this is a little out of my league. I'm a heart surgeon. Don't you have somebody who knows ... this stuff?"

"That's why we asked you to get Chuck's father." Sarah answered.

"Mr. Bartowski? What's he got to do with this?"

"The program ... I invented it." Stephen said.

"Um. Awesome. Or not awesome. I'm so confused." Devon muttered.

* * *

A little less than 90 minutes later, under the cover of dark night, the Honda Accord pulled into a nondescript ranch house outside of San Marcos, California.

"Help me with him." Casey asked, as he opened the driver-side passenger door and lifted Chuck out. Devon quickly emerged from the car and supported his brother-in-law. Together, they carried him into the house and gently rested him on the bed. As they laid him down, Chuck began to squirm to life. He opened his eyes.

"Whoah, guys. Where are we? And why are Devon and my father here?" Chuck asked, befuddled.

Hearing his voice, Sarah felt the worry and fear dissipate from her. "Chuck," she exclaimed, almost giddily.

Casey ignored her and focused on his just awakened friend. "Easy now, solider. Let the good doc and your dad have a good look at you. You gave your lady a scare."

Devon and Stephen immediately went to work examining the patient. After about twenty minutes, they reported their findings.

Devon spoke first. "Chuck, do you want everyone to leave?"

Chuck, now fully aware of his surroundings, shook his head. "They can stay."

"Ok," Devon answered. "So the good news is that, from what I can tell, you just fainted. The bad news is that I don't know what caused it. Maybe it was just the shock of everything. Or . . ."

"Maybe it's this new program stuck in my head?" Chuck stated, finishing Devon's sentence. Devon nodded softly in response.

"I can't be of any help, not yet anyway." Stephen said, frustratedly. "They made changes to my original design. I don't know what this program can do . . . or what it's doing to him. But I'm going to find out."

"Well, I feel fine now." Chuck said, bouncing off the bed. "And Devon, I'm sorry I ruined your wedding night."

"Don't worry about it 'bro." Devon responded.

"That said, can I have a moment with Sarah?" Chuck asked.

"A moment." Casey answered. "We've set up a secure call with Beckman in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I'll escort the civilians out of the safe house and find them a ride back to L.A."

With that, Casey, Devon, and Stephen left the room.

Sarah sat down on the bed, and rested her left arm on Chuck's leg. "Hi Chuck." She leaned in as if to kiss him on the cheek, but instead took the opportunity to whisper in his ear "it's not safe to talk here. Follow me. We don't have long."

Chuck got up from the bed and, together with Sarah, quickly but calmly exited the door to the room, which led to a small porch and backyard area. Once they got a suitable distance away from the house, Sarah took out a small electronic device and swept the area.

"No bugs. We can talk, but talk softly. How are you doing?" She asked.

"Honestly, I don't know. Bryce is dead. Really dead this time. Not pretend, spy dead. Then I downloaded that thing, kicked those guys assess, passed out, and now I'm freaking terrified. What the hell do I have in my head? What the hell am I capable of? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt Ellie? What's it doing to me? Beyond all that, I feel horrible. . ."

"Horrible, why?" Sarah asked, grabbing his hand for comfort.

"Because as much as I should be focused on Bryce, and his sacrifice, I can't get his last words out of my head. They were the first things on my mind when I woke up. And they're just spinning and spinning around in my head, and consuming my every thought."

"What did he say?" Sarah asked, inquisitively.

"He said . . . he said . . . you weren't going with him."

Sarah broke her eye contact. She glanced down, not quite able to look at him. She gave the slightest nod of her head. . . a yes.

"You we're going to stay here, with me? And give up the CIA? Give up everything?" Chuck inquired quietly, almost inaudibly.

Sarah put her hand on his cheek. She caressed it slightly, and looked into his eyes.

"It doesn't matter now," she replied, pausing a few seconds, "you're the Intersect, again. And I, well, I don't know what I am now."

"Walker, Bartowski, get in here! Beckman." Casey screamed from the porch of the house.

Sarah, Chuck, and Casey huddled around the speakerphone of an encrypted landline in the safehouse.

* * *

"Am I to understand that Agent Larkin is dead, and that the Asset downloaded the Intersect 2.0? And that the Asset then destroyed the Intersect computer?" General Beckman blurted in anger from the phone.

"He did it to save us, and to prevent the Intersect from falling into the hands of . . . whoever they were." Sarah protested.

"The Ring," Chuck added, "Bryce called them the Ring."

General Beckman spoke, sternly: "I'm not questioning the Asset's motives, just expressing my frustration. Mr. Bartowski, do you realize what you have done, and what it means for your future?"

"I . . . do, General," Chuck responded. His quivering voice radiated with terror and a lack of confidence. He had no idea what he had gotten himself into.

General Beckman continued: "You were essential to our national security before. With what you now have in your head, your value has increased one-hundredfold. I told you before that it was time for you to become a real spy. We cannot put it off any longer. Stay where you are. A transport will arrive in the morning to take you to one of our secure European facilities, to begin your training. You will be gone a long time. Think of a story to make up for your friends, your family. "

"No!" Chuck exclaimed. He turned towards Sarah for reassurance. Sarah looked back, conveying an expression that mixed reassurance, sympathy, and sadness.

"General. You are making a mistake." Casey interjected.

"Tell him Casey!" Chuck added.. _Casey has my back,_ Chuck thought.

"He's an emotional cripple." Casey went on.

"Hey!" Chuck jumped in, offended. Just then, he felt a soft hand gently touching his right shoulder. He turned. Sarah smirked him a half-smile. "Chuck, listen," she whispered. She had a good idea where Casey was going.

"Take him away from his sister, or from his obsessively co-dependent friend Morgan, or from Agent Walker and his puppy-dog love for her, and the kid is going to shut down."

Chuck looked at Casey, then at Sarah, then at the speakerphone. His face glowed with terror at Casey's mention of his feelings for Sarah. For her part, Sarah tried to compose herself, to avoid betraying any emotion at all. She half-succeeded. Despite her best efforts, subtle vibes of fear and embarrassment permeated the air.

"I don't. . ." Chuck tried to add.

"Your feelings for Agent Walker are not a state secret, Mr. Bartowski." General Beckman responded, cutting him off.

Casey continued: "What I'm saying, General, is that if you ship him off to god-knows-where for god-knows-how-long, and cut him off from the people he cares about . . . you aren't going to get an Agent. You're going to get a catatonic little boy, hands wrapped around his knees, sobbing in the corner for his mommy, or his beloved fake girlfriend."

Chuck got the message. The offense he felt departed from his face within fractions of a second.

"I see your point," General Beckman responded, "Colonel Casey, what do you propose?"

"Keep him in Burbank. Let Sarah and me train him. Let him keep enough of his life to remain the same moron he's always been. You won't get the Agent you expected. But General, our results over the past two years speak for themselves."

An uncomfortable silence filled the area. General Beckman was deep in thought. Then she spoke: "Agent Walker, do you agree with Colonel Casey's assessment?"

"I do, General." Sarah responded.

General Beckman continued: "All right then. Here's what we're going to do. Mr. Bartowski, your principal training will be in Burbank, with Agent Walker and Colonel Casey. But first. . .,"

The General turned towards Sarah, then resumed talking, "Agent Walker, my sources tell me that, shortly before the Asset downloaded the new Intersect, he invited you to take a vacation with him. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Sarah replied, her mind riddled with concern. _Had the CIA been bugging me? Been bugging Chuck? Even after the Intersect was removed?_

"And you declined, correct?"

"Yes," Sarah answered. Her tone expressed relief but, looking at Chuck, her eyes betrayed the faintest hint of sadness.

"Well, I am now ordering you to reconsider the Asset's proposal." General Beckman responded.

"I don't understand, General." Sarah inquired.

Sarah and Chuck exchanged looks as Beckman spoke. Their shared glances reflected mutual feelings of confusion and hope.

General Beckman studied the silence in the room. A video monitor would have been better for her purposes. She'd have preferred to gage facial expressions. But the safe house didn't have the technology. Still, she could read tone of voice. And she had chosen her words carefully: their ambiguity designed to ferret out the nature of Agent Walker's feelings towards the Asset. Having heard enough silence, she continued: "What I meant is, the Asset's romantic interest and your pre-established cover relationship provide the perfect opportunity for both of you to take an extended, explainable absence from Burbank. Given the Asset's new condition, there are certain preliminaries and tests that must be done off-site. I would have preferred Europe, but Camp Peary in Virginia will do well enough. Agent Walker, you will accompany the Asset to Camp Peary. Given the Ring's actions tonight, please travel incognito, avoid airports and other heavily monitored locations, and stay below the speed limit. Agent Casey will wait a few days to defer suspicion, and then join you."

"General, when I return, then what? Am I going back to the Buy More? You keep saying 'Asset.' Am I still an Asset?" Chuck inquired.

"Hell, if I know. It's 4:30 in the morning where I am. We'll figure out an appropriate cover and status for you while you are gone. For now, please excuse yourself. There are certain matters I must discuss with Colonel Casey and Agent Walker alone."

"One last question, what's Camp Peary?" Chuck inquired.

General Beckman responded sharply. "I'm surprised you didn't already know, Mr. Bartowski. It's the principal CIA training facility. Chuck, you are going to the Farm!"

* * *

Beckman waited a few minutes, until Casey confirmed that Chuck had left the room and absconded himself far out of hearing range.

"This message is for both of you," General Beckman howled. She directly her attention curtly towards Sarah, "Agent Walker. I agree with Colonel Casey's concerns about the Asset's emotional condition. That is the only reason your place on this team is secure, for now. But please know, I am not an idiot. I didn't buy for a second Colonel Casey's preposterous story about you only pretending to go AWOL. You ran away with Chuck. You placed your Asset's well-being above the interests of the United States. Charitably speaking, you committed what might be considered light treason. I can only assume that your romantic attachment to the Asset drove such insanity."

"But why. . ." Sarah interrupted, terrified.

General Beckman stopped Sarah mid-sentence, and explained: "Why didn't I mention it earlier? Why did I appoint you to head the new Intersect project? Well, frankly, as Colonel Casey said earlier, the results speak for themselves. But, more importantly, the threat to your loyalties had passed. Mr. Bartowski was no longer an Asset, or even an Analyst, just a competent computer repairman. Whatever you did with him on your personal time was none of my business. That's not the case anymore. Whether it happens in Europe or Burbank, in the weeks and months ahead, we will be asking Chuck to do things he won't be comfortable doing. His days as an overgrown man-child are over. Chuck **WILL** become an Agent, with all the moral muck that entails. His new role also means placing him in more danger than he ever has been before. And I need to know that, when the time comes, you will do what is best for the U.S. Government, regardless of your feelings for the Asset."

"I will, General." Sarah replied.

"You better. We will be watching," General Beckman warned.

General Beckman then turned her attention towards Casey, her voice just as stern: "As for you, Colonel Casey, you also need to know that I am not an idiot. You were ordered to reacquire Agent Walker and the Asset. Instead, you disobeyed orders from a superior officer. You joined them on a rogue operation, then lied to my face about your and Agent Walker's behavior. The success of that operation is the only reason you are sitting comfortably where you are, instead of rotting in a hole. In short, Colonel Casey, you are just as compromised as Agent Walker. Perhaps not romantically - although I don't know your preferences –" Casey grunted as Beckman continued, "but compromised nevertheless. My god, when Roan Montgomery retires, I'm tempted to have Chuck replace him as the long-term seduction instructor at the Academy. That man single-handedly turned the CIA's top enforcer into a love-sick school girl, and the NSA's premier agent into his loyal lap dog." Casey grunted again. Sarah frowned.

General Beckman continued: "In any event, both of you are safe from a 49B, for now, because the Asset has developed a bond with you. Whatever your motives, your assessment, Colonel Casey, is correct: for Chuck to become the Agent we need, we need to keep his life as normal as possible, and surround him with people he trusts."

General Beckman continued: "But I also need people that I trust. Right now, I don't trust either of you to properly handle the Asset. When you get back to Burbank, I will be sending in someone objective to oversee your training of Chuck."

"One more thing," General Beckman added, "You've both spent the last two years defending Chuck Bartowski from the world. You must now protect the world from Chuck Bartowski. "

"Is he dangerous?" Sarah asked.

"Very. Both to himself, and to others around him. On that note, I think it is best, both for the safety of everyone involved, and to preserve his cover as he commences his training, that he leave his sister's apartment. Ordinarily, Agent Walker, I would order you both to buttress your boyfriend-girlfriend cover by moving in together. But the Asset has previously indicated that it would be too emotionally complicated for him to do so. That's the last thing we need right now and, I suspect, the last thing you need. Instead, once you return from the Farm, the Asset will move in with Agent Casey. That is all. Dismissed."

General Beckman hung up the phone, leaving a flummoxed Sarah and Casey to stare at each other.

"So, you and Chuck? Roommates?" Sarah teased.

Casey grunted, then replied. "When are you going to tell Chuck the good news?," he asked.

"I don't understand." Sarah responded. Nothing sounded good to her. Chuck was still, functionally, an Asset. He would be trained to become just like her. To be just what she hated. And her own career was circling perilously close to the toilet. General Beckman had made that very clear.

Casey quipped back: "You realize that the General just ordered you to take Chuck on a cross-country road trip, from California to Virginia, away from surveillance? Don't you?"

With that, Sarah grinned. Shortly thereafter, a small smile emerged.

* * *

At the center of the Ring's operations stood the Chamber. It was a room - an expansive, circular room. White, limestone walls combined with effervescent lighting to give it the feel of a stately mausoleum. Most of the Chamber stood dark. Not quite black. More like a darkish grey. Around it's interior, towards the walls, were the alcoves - 163 in total. Each alive had its own somber, soft light perched above the space. From the top of the room, the lights, the alcoves, formed a giant circle: a Ring.

Each alcove was reserved for a Revered Delegate – an elected representative of a regional or national branch, chosen by that branch's Electors, whom in turn were admitted as Electors in a Dutch Republican fashion similar to that of various fraternal or religious societies.

Some of the Revered Delegates, a select few, manned their alcoves themselves. Others staffed their designated spaces with aides, agents, or trusted advisers. Still others, the majority at any given point, stood empty — save for a telescreen or holographic projector. The size and scope of the Ring made it difficult for most of the Revered Delegates to attend in person.

In the center of the Ring stood the Chair. And upon the Chair sat the Chair. The Chair of the Ring. The personal epicenter of its operations.

They called the Chair's seat the Chair, but it was more of a throne. At least physically. Structurally, it was not a throne in any traditional sense. The Ring's Chair was not a monarch, or even a dictator. Just as the regional or national branches elected the Revered Delegates, the Revered Delegates elected the Chair, who served at their pleasure. So the role itself, the Ring's Chair, was more akin to that of the American Speaker of the House, or the leader of a European Parliament. But the Chair itself, the physical chair, still resembled a throne in the visual sense. To sit on the Chair required climbing eight marble steps. The Chair itself was made of a marble that, in better light, would have had a blueish hue. On its left armrest stood all sorts of buttons and communication devices. On its right armrest was a gavel.

The Chair of the Ring sat upon the Chair, wrapped in a grey cloak. The cloak's hood extended below her hairline. It half-covered her green eyes. She looked out across the Chamber, banged her gavel, and called the session to order.

One of the 163 soft yellow lights in the alcoves turned green. The Chair nodded towards the green light. She spoke. Her language was Esperanto, the invented international tongue created by the Polish ophthalmologist L. L. Zamenhof in 1887. But it's meaning was simple. "The Chair recognizes the Revered Delegate from the Western United States. You have the floor."

From under the green light, a man's voice began speaking. The man himself was hidden in darkness, his features obscured by the Chamber's dimness.

"There have been some developments in the Intersect matter," the Revered Delegate said, in English. As he spoke, an Esperanto translation of his words boomed across the Chamber.

The Revered Delegate cleared his throat. By his side, stood an empty tumbler glass. The Revered Delegate poured himself a club soda, garnished it with two olives, and took a sip. He continued speaking.

"Unfortunately, our sources indicate that Miles and his team were unable to acquire the Intersect. Our sources further indicate that the previous Intersect, Charles Bartowski, downloaded the new version, before destroying the hardware."

Gasps peppered across the Chamber.

"Options?" the Chair asked, calmly, again in Esparanto. Several yellow lights above the alcoves flickered to green. "The Chair recognizes the Revered Delegate from

Brazil," she said.

"This is a disaster," the Brazilian R.D. exclaimed, "we must act quickly. Capture Bartowski, find a way to extract the information." As with the previous speaker, the Brazilian R.D. spoke his native language, in this case Portuguese, while a nearly simultaneous Esperanto translation boomed across the Chamber.

Another yellow light flickered green. "The Chair recognizes the Revered Delegate from Persia," she said.

"Bartowski destroyed Fulcrum, killed Miles and His team. He's too dangerous to be left alive. Kill him, and wait until the Intersect is rebuilt."

The Chair interjected. "In a sense, Bartowski did us a favor. Fulcrum were hyper-nationalists, borderline fascists. They were nothing more than useful idiots to our Great Cause. We would have needed to deal with them eventually. And Miles? A senseless extremist, and a fool. I've read the report from our American friends. He slaughtered his own team of Marines inside their Castle, for no reason. We are better off without him."

The Revered Delegate from the Western United States' light flickered again, and the Chair recognized him.

"I'm forced to agree with the Chair. But in a broader sense, Bartowski and his team are our adversaries... not our enemies. Back in the day, people used to know the difference."

A green light across the Chamber flashed, and the Chair recognized the Revered Delegate from South Korea. "What do you mean, Revered Delegate?"

"Think of Jimmy Carter . . . " the R.D. from the Western United States said.

"America's greatest monster!" cried a voice from the Chamber, interrupting the Western American R.D.

"I don't disagree with our Rhodesian friend's remark," the Western American R.D. commented, "but Carter's failings were due to his foolishness, his naivety, not any maliciousness. Back in the day, the U.S. and the Soviet Union were enemies. People like Carter were our adversaries. Here in the United States, and elsewhere, we've forgotten that.

Revered Delegates, Madame Chair, I'm familiar with Mr. Bartowski and his team. He might oppose our means. But I believe we can convince him, convince them, of the justness of our goals. With the right persuasion, perhaps we can turn him from an adversary, to an Asset."

The Western American Revered Delegate finished speaking, and took another sip of his club soda. He fished out one of the olives and swallowed it.

"And what do you suggest?" The Chair inquired.

The Revered Delegate from the United States answered her promptly. "Circumstances have dealt us lemons. Let us make lemonade. We only get one shot at this. We do not want our Great Cause to fail because of buggy software. Fortunately, Mr. Bartowski has volunteered to beta test the new Intersect for us. I say we let him do so. Work out the kinks in the program, as it were."

A different green light flashed, and the Chair recognized the Revered Delegate from Russia. "So you are suggesting that we leave Mr. Bartowski unmolested?," he asked.

The Revered Delegate from the Western United States waited for the Esperanto translation to finish, then answered. "Not entirely. Through our sources, we leak that we believe their tale of the Intersect being destroyed. We let Mr. Bartowski get his team back up and running. Then we watch and observe. With luck, maybe Mr. Bartowski and his team will take care of a few baddies for us. Less for us to clean up later. Once we're confident that this Intersect does what we need it to do, we reassess. Perhaps Mr. Bartowski's interests will align with ours. Perhaps not. Until then, we defer a discussion of appropriate action ... and we try to stay out of his way."

The Chair interjected. "From prior reports, we understand that Mr. Bartowkski's team has largely confined itself to the Los Angeles area. Are you, in a sense, suggesting that we give Mr. Bartowski Los Angeles, while we take the world?"

The Revered Delegate from the United States downed the second olive in his tumbler, and took another sip. "In part, Madame Chair. We should avoid Los Angeles if at all possible. But be careful. . ."

The Reverend Delegate took a step forward towards the Chair, emerging into the Chamber's light, and revealing himself as Roan Montgomery.

"Some people have a habit of showing up where you least expect them," Roan commented.

Roan lifted us the remainder of his club soda, as if to make a toast, and commanded the Chamber's attention.

"Revered Delegates, Madame Chair, fear not. Our goal remains within our grasp. To the End of History!"

The Revered Delegates answered, in unison, their chorus voices thundering throughout the Chamber:

**"To the End of History!"**

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, comments? Worth continuing?


	2. Chuck and Sarah vs The Road Trip

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

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The safe house was a small, open-plan ranch house. A kitchenette led into the main living area, which centered around a fold-out sofa. A few feet in back of the sofa was the bed. To the left was a small bathroom with a shower. To the right, a screen door led out to the porch and backyard. To the right of the backyard was a small detached garage.

It was nearly 1:45 a.m. when the call with Beckman ended, and Sarah fetched Chuck from his secondment in the garage. The commutation of the past several hours had exhausted everyone physically. But the day's events and Beckman's plans had caused Chuck's mind to race. Rummaging through the house's medical supplies, Sarah found a clonazepam tablet and gave it to him to calm his nerves. Within fifteen minutes, the tablet did it work and the team got ready for bed.

Chuck and Sarah took the bed, Casey the fold-out couch. Sleep was everyone's priority. Besides, the cramped surroundings offered no privacy. With Casey sleeping four feet away from them, any unresolved tensions between Chuck and Sarah would have to wait.

It was 8:30 a.m. the next morning when Chuck stirred awake. Casey was gone, leaving nothing but a brief note on the nightstand by the bed. "Gone to reestablish cover. Will meet up in VA."

Chuck looked up and saw Sarah up-and-about, packing. The accommodations were small, but the closet space was generous and well-stocked with whatever agents might need. Jeans, sweatshirts, undergarments, personal hygiene items, you name it. Sarah had grabbed five days' worth of clothes for both them, shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrushes, $1000 in cash, $2000 worth of pre-paid debit cards, a pistol, and a tranq gun.

"You're awake, here, put this on," she said to him, throwing him a non-descript navy blue sweatshirt, blue boxers, and beige slacks. "No time for breakfast," she added, "but we've got nut bars and cold coffee drinks."

"Breakfast of champions," Chuck responded sarcastically.

Ten minutes later, they were on the road. Fifteen minutes after that, they had nothing but open highway ahead of them, encased in a nondescript Honda Accord.

"So, how long is the drive to Virginia." Chuck asked.

"About four days, give or take." Sarah responded.

Chuck turned to her, and gave her a small smile. "Four days, just the two of us? Alone?"

Sarah darted her eyes at Chuck for half-a-glance, then refocused on the road. "Mmph hmph."

"And then what?" Chuck asked.

"And then you go into training. Beyond that, I don't know."

Chuck stared off at the road ahead. Neither spoke another word for another forty minutes. Neither knew quite what to say. But the silence between them was surprisingly comfortable, broken only by classic rock station that the car's radio picked up. Eventually, Chuck broke the quiet.

"I've been thinking . . . do you think that maybe, just maybe, Beckman's playing cupid here?" Chuck pondered.

Sarah's face muscles flexed with curiosity. "I don't understand."

"She could have found anyone to escort me to Virginia. She chose you." Chuck explained.

Sarah pondered the thought for a moment, then shook her head.

"I don't think so. She was just being practical. Like Casey said, this . . . you, the 2.0, all of this. . . it's beyond top secret. Aside from the three of us and Beckman, I don't think there's another person who knows about you. She couldn't bring anyone else in without raising questions." Sarah responded.

"She could have asked Casey." Chuck noted.

Sarah dismissed the thought. "Too complicated for our cover. Casey's just your co-worker. Beckman was right . . . our cover relationship provides the perfect reason for us to get away together."

Chuck's face dropped, at Sarah's description. "Cover relationship?" he asked, despondently.

Sarah looked briefly at him, smirked, and turned back towards the road. "You _know_ what I mean."

"There's something else." Sarah stated.

Chuck tossed her a curious glance, and Sarah explained. "We didn't give you the full skivvy last night. It was too late. But Beckman's concerned that we're too emotionally attached to you. Not just me. Casey too. When we get back to Burbank, she'll be sending someone to supervise us. To watch us. . . . She doesn't want us together Chuck."

"So this trip?" Chuck asked.

"We have four days together. Then we'll be back under the microscope. Probably worse than before."

"So four days alone, with my fake girlfriend?" Chuck asked, using a predominantly sad tone which contained a soft undercurrent of inquisitiveness.

"_Fake_ girlfriend?" Sarah shot back, smirking at him again.

"You know what I mean," Chuck answered.

Sarah smiled. She thought about letting the moment pass. Then, catching a glimpse of the charm bracelet around her wrist, another thought overcame her. '_Chuck needs reassurance. He shouldn't. He knew I was going to leave the CIA, leave everything, for him. But, it's Chuck. He needs it anyway . . . especially after the past two years.' _She jerked the car off to the shoulder, hit the brakes, and turned off the engine. She turned to him, took a deep breath, and exhaled.

"Chuck, I don't know what will happen when this trip ends. Chances are, you're going to be my asset again, if you aren't already. But it's important for you to know, to really know, it's not fake for me. It hasn't been for a long time. On some level, it's been real for me ever since you told a little girl that real ballerinas are tall."

Chuck face beamed with joy. He reached over, attempting to kiss her, but Sarah placed one finger between his lips to stop him.

She sighed. "But us being real doesn't mean we can be together. Not that way. Beckman knows. About us. Maybe not the specifics. Maybe not about Morgan's IOU in your wallet. But she knows enough. Only Casey's theatrics about your emotions kept me on this team, and saved me from a cell . . . _for now_."

Chuck's face dropped again, and his smile vanished. "The rules, again? You were with Bryce. . ."

Flustered, Sarah tried to explain. "Have you ever wondered why the rules are different for assets? My primary job has been to protect you, yes. But it's also been my job to manipulate you. To get you to act in the Government's interest, rather than your own. And to be ready to burn you if become a liability, or just outlived your usefulness. To have you killed or bunkered. That's why relationships, emotional attachments, between agents and assets are forbidden."

Chuck looked on, given an expression roughly akin to learning that water is wet and that the desert has sand. "Yeah, I've known that for awhile."

Sarah examined him, dumbstruck. "Huh?"

"Well, I _am_ a reasonably intelligent guy."

Sarah smiled. "That you are."

Chuck smiled and clarified. "So it never occurred to you that I looked up the definition of '_asset_' within hours of Graham and Beckman calling me one? I figured out pretty quickly that it wasn't a compliment. Heck, putting aside what I've had access to. Do you know how much stuff is publicly available on the internet about asset protocols? About how to handle assets? And when to burn them?"

Sarah studied him. She wondered to herself how she continued, even now, to underestimate him.

"But . . . if you've known all that. . . why have you trusted me?" She asked.

"Because you told me to." Chuck replied.

Sarah shot him a confused look. "That's it? Even after know all about why you _shouldn't_ trust me?"

Chuck laughed for a second. "Well, I also figured out, pretty early on, that you weren't doing your job very well."

"Hey." Sarah quipped, feigning insult.

Chuck shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I meant, I mean, I've believed, I've known, that you've always placed me first . . . above your job, above orders. The past few days only proved it."

Sarah reached over, and pinched his cheeks. "Charles Bartowski, you never cease to amaze me. But it doesn't change anything. If we're together, I'll get reassigned, maybe even thrown in a cell, and you'll get a new handler. And whomever she is, she's not going to protect you the way I do. . . she's not going to put your interests first. I can't risk that. I can't risk you."

"But we still have these four days." Chuck noted.

"That we do Chuck, that we do." Sarah gave him one last smirk, then turned the ignition key on, and steered them back towards the road.

* * *

Four hours later, Sarah saw a sign for a rest area ahead. "Hungry?" she asked.

"I could eat." Chuck answered.

Sarah kept driving, past the rest area.

"Hey? You missed the. . ." Chuck stated, not finishing his sentence.

"Beckman's orders were to keep you away from cameras. Rest areas have too many. We don't think the Ring knows about you, but there's no sense taking any unnecessary risks. We'll pull off at the exist and find something along the road."

Seven minutes later, Sarah took an exit which led to a dusty, largely barren road. She followed the signs to a sandwich shop thee miles down, then pulled the car in.

Shortly thereafter, they sat at a table. Sarah ordered a grilled chicken on toast. Chuck, a meatball sub. She dived in, and devoured her sandwich quickly. But she noticed Chuck barely pecking at his.

"Not hungry? You said you were. . . I mean, I know it's not Subway, but it'll do." She stated.

Chuck looked down at his sandwich. The reddish but slightly greenish tint of the meat reminded him of spoiled corned beef. "I'm sure it's a perfectly acceptable meatball sandwich. I'm just not as hungry as I thought I was. I don't know, the stress of everything."

Just then, the door to the restaurant opened. A gruff-looking man wearing a plaid shirt, brown corduroy pants, and a bushy white mustache walked in. He appeared to be in his mid-50s. He was slightly overweight and walked with a small limp.

Chuck's eyes spun underneath their eyelids. Images flashed before him.

_A playing card. _

_A blue sparrow._

_A latrine at Camp David._

_The children's book character, Danny Dunn. _

Soon, the images ended. Chuck shook his head.

"Chuck, did you just flash?" Sarah probed, worryingly. Her mind reached back to the image of Chuck the night before, nonresponsive, and cradled in her arms on the floor.

"Yeah, on that guy over there, in the plaid shirt. The Wilford Brimley look-a-like."

"The guy. Who is he?"

Chuck spilled the details. "Milton Herring. He's an animal rights extremist. Back in the 1980s, he blew up a couple of labs that experimented on monkeys. He did fifteen years on domestic terrorism charges. He's been out of prison for seven years."

"So?" Sarah asked.

Chuck waved his hands-up to signal insignificance. "So . . . nothing. He's in the Intersect. That's why I flashed. But he's been quiet for years. Then, about six months ago, he started informing for the FBI. His last report was six days ago. Seems to be on the up-and-up."

Sarah focused in on Chuck. He seemed ok. No twitches. Nothing to indicate another incident. But she couldn't shake her sense of worry, her concern for him. "The data then, it's recent . . . this isn't something that could be left over from what your father removed?" she inquired.

"Yeah, it's recent data." Chuck stated, matter-of-factly.

"And you feel fine? You're not going to faint on me?" Sarah asked, her muscles finally relaxing.

"Just peachy. Except for the disgusting sandwich in front of me." Chuck responded.

"I thought you said you weren't hungry."

"I lied. Let's find a Subway."

* * *

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. when they pulled into a dingy motel to spend the night. The room reminded both of them of Barstow. Hardly surprising, all motels basically look alike. And their not-quite-coitus interruptus was still fresh on their minds. But the room differed from the Barstow motel in one key respect.

"So, two beds?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah." Chuck said, as he threw their duffle bag down on the floor.

"Probably for the best," Sarah responded. "If all we have is four days. . . three nights . . . it would be difficult to go back."

Sarah gazed at him, intently, intimately.

"Yeah, difficult." Chuck said.

He returned her gaze. Soon, the two of them were deeply enmeshed in each other's eyes. Sarah placed her hand on his cheek, and caressed it softly.

"So, it's settled then?" Sarah asked.

She focused her stare even deeper, almost ogling him.

"Yeah, settled." Chuck said.

He tried to break their visual embrace when Sarah pounced upon his lips. She kissed him passionately, without abandon or reason, wrapping her arms around him and tugging him towards her.

Chuck kissed her back, then furiously throw her on the nearby bed. A few seconds later, as they kissed, a felt a familiar feeling come over him. An uncomfortable one. A _flash_. He fought through it, and tried his best to hide it from Sarah. He returned her kisses, and guided his arms down her back. He began to reach for the clasp of her button, not feeling entirely in control of his actions, when Sarah broke it off. A look of disgust was on her face.

"Uggh.. I think I'm going to be sick." She said, rolling off the bed and peeling over as if to vomit.

"Sarah, wha..?" Chuck asked, worriedly.

"Bryce." She said, exasperated.

Chuck felt his heart plummet through his stomach and emerge from his nether regions. A wave of dark realization crept over him.

"My gosh. I've been so selfish. Bryce died yesterday. You were in love with him, at one point. This isn't right. It's . . . too soon." he rambled, uncontrollably.

Sarah tried to regain her composure, then shook him off. "No, it's not that. The way you kissed me, touched me, rubbed my back . . . it wasn't like before, like Barstow. It . . . felt like Bryce. It felt, _exactly_, like Bryce. . . Chuck, did you flash?"

Chuck took a big gulp and swallowed air. "I . . . think so. It was weird. We were kissing, you know, and then it just came over me. I didn't want to stop . . . with you, _I'd never want to stop_, but, yeah, I didn't quite feel in control. It was like when I was fighting those Ring agents. I knew I was punching them, kicking them. But it wasn't me, consciously, doing it. It was the program, you know? Like autopilot?"

Sarah gasped, horrified. "Oh my god. Bryce. He always thought he was God's gift to women. It looks like the CIA agreed. They put his techniques, his moves. . . they're in the Intersect."

Chuck sat up, and almost keeled over himself. "Now I think I'm going to be sick. . . . so what, you're saying is, when we were . . . um, you know, it was like Bryce . . ."

Just then, Chuck's voice faded out. His eyes spiraled into his eyelids, the room circled above him, and the cold halogen light above him blinded him. He collapsed, falling flat backwards onto the bed.

Sarah gasped. She rushed towards the duffel bag, pulled out the basic medical supplies, and pounded onto the bed next to him, tending to his eerily still body. She checked his pulse, his vitals . . . everything was normal, just like before. But Chuck was out cold. She slapped his cheeks. Nothing. She kissed him. Nothing. She frantically tried every other technique she knew to try to summon him. No response. She pondered the risk of calling 911, or whether she could afford _not _to call 911. She finally made it as far as "91" when Chuck sprang back to life.

"Whoah," he exclaimed, stirring awake. "What happened?"

"You passed out again." Sarah said. "Not as bad as last time. About twenty minutes, not two hours."

"It was the flash, Bryce, that caused it?" Chuck asked.

Sarah nodded. "Probably. I don't know. We'll have to get you a full workup when we get to Camp Peary."

Though dizzy from the experience, Chuck started laughing.

"Chuck, what's so funny?" Sarah asked, as she played with his hair unconsciously.

"Bryce. Even from beyond the grave, he's found a way to come between us." Chuck said. He paused, then softly grasped her hand in his. "We're never going to get our shot, are we?" he asked. Sarah looked at him, but didn't answer.

Chuck got up, walked up to the other bed in the room, lifted the covers, and crawled inside.

"Chuck, we can still share a bed." Sarah stated.

"Too risky," Chuck commented. He pointed to his noggin. "We don't know how this thing works. Maybe it's like one of those cheesy vampire movies. You know, the ones where, whenever Dracula gets just a little too excited, his eyes go all red and the fangs come up. The last thing we need is, um, a premature e-flash-uation. And then suddenly I'm crumpled up and catatonic for hours." He turned off the light by the bed. "Good night Sarah."

"Good night, Chuck."

* * *

Two nights later, around 8 p.m., Chuck and Sarah pulled into a dive bar near Asheville, North Carolina for dinner. Camp Peary was still a seven-hour drive away. They had one last night of freedom before reaching their destination. Chuck ordered the burger, no cheese. Sarah the cheeseburger, extra pickles. As they sat and waited for their food, the bar's jukebox played _Sweet Caroline_ in the background.

"There's something I don't get." Chuck said.

Sarah's eyes peaked up at him. "What?"

"The intersect. It was meant for Bryce. Why would the CIA put a Bryce-program in Bryce?" Chuck asked.

Sarah thought about it for a moment, then answered. "Bryce was just the test subject. The new intersect was supposed to go into dozens of agents."

"Huh." Chuck said. "You know what?"

"What?" Sarah answered.

"I've decided I'm ok with the whole 'Bryce-in-my-head' thing. I mean, I'm not ok with it. When we're _together_, in that way, finally, I want it to be me . . . not _him._ But, still, I spent the last two years hoping that we'd really be together, and now we are, I mean, sort of, so I'm good. It's more than I hoped for a few days ago."

"Ok." Sarah said softly, sadly. Nonverbally, she tried to convey that it wasn't enough for her, but that it would have to do for now.

Chuck went on. "And yes, I know, starting tomorrow I'm the Asset again, and you're my handler, and nothing can happen or you'll get reassigned."

"We don't know that for sure. . ." Sarah interjected.

Chuck acknowledged her point, then continued. "But now that I know that it's real, that everything's real, nothing else matters. Well, it matters, but it's in the background. You know?"

Sarah nodded, as _Sweet Caroline _ended. The jukebox switched to _Hey Jude_.

"I mean, I just have faith that we'll find a way." Chuck said, rambling somewhat.

Sarah smiled softly at him, and grabbed his arm. She leaned over. "Do you think we can risk a kiss on the cheek?" she asked. Chuck grunted approvingly, and Sarah placed a soft one on his right side, two inches from his mouth. She thought to herself, _'I wish I had his faith. But maybe he can have faith for the both of us.'_

"But there's just one thing we need," Chuck declared.

"What is it?" Sarah asked, intrigued.

"A song. If we're going to be together, we need a song. We need an 'our song.'" He said.

"We don't need a song, Chuck. Besides, I don't even know music."

"You don't need to. How about this. We choose the next song on the jukebox. Whatever comes up, that's our song."

"Ok." Sarah answered.

Shortly thereafter, _Hey Jude _ended. And a classic hit from the Rolling Stones began playing. Chuck recognized the melody and smiled. "_Brown Sugar_, great tune." he said.

Sarah listened to the words, perplexed. "Chuck, our song is not going to be about raping slaves."

Chuck looked at her stupefied. "Huh?"

"Did you ever pay attention to the lyrics?" she asked.

Chuck thought about it for a moment. He hadn't. He just liked the beat, the sound.

Sarah continued, "I meant, I only caught a few of them. But didn't he just say something about a slave ship bound for cotton fields, and 'doin' all right' whipping a woman? Then the 'brown sugar' refrain? I mean, it's kind of obvious."

"Um. . ." Chuck stammered. He acknowledged her point. "Alright, next song?"

"Agreed." Sarah responded.

About three minutes later, _Brown Sugar_ ended. And another familiar melody began. Chuck recognized it immediately. Sarah did too. She must have heard it on a mission at some point, although she couldn't remember one. They looked at each other ominously, exchanged looks of mutual recognition, and then burst out laughing.

In the background, the words of the immortal Jimmy Soul thundered from the juke box.

"_If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you. If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you."_

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A/N: So that's it for the road trip. Next chapter, is Chuck vs. the Farm. I'm not entirely sure where it goes. I've got the basic story/arc elements to the chapter lined up. And, yes, Roan will make an appearance. But I'm trying to decide whether to work in a "spy story" as well. There's a lot of potential, but I might not come up with right idea. Any of you have any thoughts/ideas for spy stories?

By the way, thanks a ton for the reviews and encouragement. My one promise to you is that this story isn't going to be predictable. Hope you all like it . . . but be patient with posting times. I've got a full-time job and two young kids. Also be patient a bit with typos . . . I try to catch 'em, but sometimes fail. Please let me know if you see any.

Also, if someone can post to the Facebook group, I'd appreciate it!


	3. Chuck vs The Farm Part 1

A/N: **A big thanks to David Carner for the Beta Read!**

Also, I don't own Chuck, or these characters, I'm not making money from this. 

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Sarah drove the Honda Accord, going 50 down the highway. Chuck was seated next to her. Camp Peary was about an hour away. They exchanged furtive glances but few words as they counted down the miles and minutes until they fell once more under Big Brother's watchful eye.

Sarah broke the silence. "Chuck, we have to talk . . . about us."

Chuck nodded. "I know." Sorrow drowned out his voice.

Sarah shot him a glance, then refocused on the road. "Once we get there, to Camp Peary, it can't be like it's been the past few days. I'm going to have to be cold, formal. If I'm not. . ."

Chuck placed his hand on her arm to reassure her, interrupting her. "I know. Look, maybe this whole 'Bryce's bedroom skills' thing in my head is a blessing. A kind of 'may you live in interesting times' blessing, but a blessing nevertheless. I mean, if we, _when _we, get together, I want it to be all me, you know? Not the programming. And who knows when this thing . . .," he pointed to his temple, "is going to be fixed. And until then, I'll have to be content with the best partner, the best 'fake' girlfriend, that a guy could ever hope for."

The pair exchanged smiles, and continued down the road.

* * *

Sarah and Chuck arrived at Camp Peary in late-afternoon. Checking in at the front desk, they were escorted to a small conference room. Sarah and Chuck sat a professional, non-intimate distance across from each other around the conference room table. About fifteen minutes later, General Diane Beckman and Stephen Bartowski entered.

"Dad?" Chuck asked.

Stephen nodded to his son, but ceded the floor to General Beckman, who addressed the group.

"Agent Walker, the younger Bartowski. Thanks to both of you for coming. I've spoken with Col. Casey. We expect him to be joining us within the next day or two. Mr. Bartowski, the younger, your training here will consist of three parts. First, you will receive an abbreviated version of the standard training that we give all recruits. Second, while you are here, we will also be testing out the new Intersect skills that you have access to."

General Beckman turned her head to Stephen Bartowski, and yielded the room to him. He spoke: "Third, and this is where I come in, and why I agreed to help _these people _. . . we will be testing the Intersect to make sure that it's working properly. I'm hoping we can get to the bottom of what caused you to pass out when you used the fighting skills, and to make sure that thing in your head isn't causing any damage . . . Son, for that reason, I need to know if you've flashed in the past four days, and if you've suffered any side effects."

Chuck and Sarah exchanged a guilty look, which they quickly suppressed – Sarah more successfully than Chuck. Both also fleetingly looked at General Beckman, then tried to hide it when she appeared to notice. Sarah saw Chuck begin to open his mouth, so she decided to assume control of the situation. "Yes, General, Mr. Bartowski. The Asset flashed in a restaurant on a convicted but seemingly retired terrorist."

"And did the Asset suffer any ill-effects?" the General asked.

Sarah responded quickly, confidently. "No General. He handled the flash smoothly."

Stephen looked at his son, and at Sarah. He sensed that they were hiding something, but could gauge nothing further. "Is there anything else you want to tell me, son?" he asked.

Chuck looked at his father, then at General Beckman, then back at his father. Stammering a bit, he spoke. "No Dad . . . nothing to tell."

"Very well," General Beckman retorted. "There is another small matter that I have cleared the senior Mr. Bartowski to discuss with you. He has known for some time. He only briefed me this morning."

A puzzled look on Chuck's face grew, as he turned towards his father.

"It's about your mom, son." Stephen said.

"What about her?"

"You've probably figured out by now that we weren't a normal family. She was in the CIA too." Stephen stated.

"Mom was a spy?" Chuck asked, stunned. "Is that why she left?"

Stephen shook his head defiantly. "She _wasn't _a spy. A better description would be 'spy-adjacent.' She was part-Field Analyst, part-Information Technology."

"Remind you of anyone?" General Beckman asked, semi-sarcastically, her left eyebrow raised, and her vision dead-focused on Chuck.

Chuck stumbled a bit. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Stephen took a deep breath. "Because if you're going to go down this path, it's important that you know what happened to her. . . when she disappeared. . ."

General Beckman interjected, cutting Stephen off. "She was assigned to a team that went deep undercover in Poland, in the waning days of the Cold War. We assigned her because, as I believe you know, your mom was a native Polish speaker. In any event, she monitored our team's situation from a safe house, provided them with supplies, intelligence, kept a communications link open . . . that sort of thing. The team's objective was simple: to observe events inside the Polish government and, potentially, to help to shape a post-Warsaw Pact future. About three weeks into the mission, the team disappeared without a trace. . . Mary, your mother, included. We thought, we assumed, they were captured or killed by the Polish SB – the Polish version of the KGB. We were wrong. Just to be clear, I'm using the royal 'we' here . . . . 'we' meaning the United States. I didn't know a thing about this until your father briefed me. None of the records were digitized, and the NSA didn't have access to the CIA's original paper records, if they even still exist. Until a few days ago, I believed your mother was a private sector information technology consultant – her cover profession."

Chuck's eyeballs jumped out of his skull. "Can we get back to the 'we were wrong' part?"

Stephen took another deep breath and answered. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this. . . She's dead, Charles. But the SB, the Soviets, didn't kill her. It was the Ring . . . or, more accurately, one of the Ring's subsidiary member organizations. Whatever your mom's team was doing conflicted with their plans for a post-Communist Poland. Your mom, her entire team, were shot. The bodies were dumped in a warehouse."

Chuck's face grew ablaze with both anger and curiosity. "How could you not tell me this? Our entire childhood, we thought she just walked out on us, abandoned us? And the Ring, you've known about them for _decades_?"

Stephen tried to put his hands on his son's shoulders to calm him, but Chuck backed away. General Beckman seized the opportunity to speak.

"Mr. Bartowski, _Chuck_, I'll answer your question about the Ring first. Yes, we've known about them for a long time. The organization started back in the 1960s as a loose network, a _ring_, of dissident spies and military officers from the Warsaw Pact countries – the East German Stasi, the Polish SB, the Romanian Securitate, a few others. They shared little in common other than a hatred of Communism and Russian domination of their native countries. We provided them certain support, in the beginning."

"You funded them?" Chuck asked, angrily.

General Beckman nodded. "Their interests aligned with our own. And they periodically fed us information. So, yes, in part. But much of their income came from smuggling goods and services into-and-out of disreputable but non-hostile countries. Ian Smith's Rhodesia, apartheid South Africa, etc. They also stole weapons from their own countries to sell to anti-Communist insurgent groups – like the Contras in Nicaragua. But since the fall of Communism, they've been quiet - more like ghosts than spies. They haven't gone after American interests. They didn't post the threat to our security that Fulcrum did."

Chuck pepped up, challenging the General. "Bryce said that Fulcrum didn't matter. That it was just part of the Ring."

The General nodded back, this time more despondently. "I know. Col. Casey filled me in. If Agent Larkin was right, we may have made a grave error in misjudging them."

Chuck turned back towards his father, fury in his eyes. "But none of this explains Mom, and why you didn't tell me before now."

Stephen crossed his own arms, bit his lip, and responded. "Son, I didn't know myself until about eight months ago. Before then, I didn't know much more than you. Like the General said earlier, all the records from the time period were in paper. I'm good, _but even I can't hack paper_. It wasn't until the Polish government digitized some of the SB's old paper archives that I came across the report . . . that I saw the photos of the warehouse. Of the bodies. Of what they did to her. I thought about telling you, Ellie, before the wedding . . . but my re-appearance was a big enough distraction already. . . . Still, before you embark on this life, willingly, I thought you should know."

"Willingly?" Chuck inquired. "Do I still have a choice?"

General Beckman responded curtly. "Of course. You have the same choice that Thomas Hobson offered his customers. On that front, I hear that the weather in underground bunkers is lovely this time of year."

Throughout it all, Sarah felt a deep ache in her soul. Part of her was frustrated that the physical distance between her and Chuck around the conference table - about eight feet - prevented her from reaching out, touching him on the shoulder, calming him, as he heard some of the worst news of his life. Yet a tiny voice inside of her was glad that she couldn't. Beckman was there. And any sign of intimate affection, attention, could be the doom of her. The distance kept her from trying, and perhaps saved her from a mistake. The more she thought about it, the more she hated that voice. She should have been able to offer some support. Any support. The support that any competent _handler_ should give. But she wasn't a handler. Couldn't be a handler. So she sat there like a virtual potted plant, as emotional walls came crashing down upon the man she cared so deeply for.

* * *

The meeting ended, and two MPs came to escort Chuck and Sarah to separate rooms. Reaching his room, Chuck instinctively reached for his wallet to tip the man. He offered him $2. The MP, who looked like he could be Casey's angrier cousin, growled. "I'm not a damn bellhop."

"Oh, right." Chuck responded. He put away his wallet and entered his room, alone. It was small, but efficient. There was a bed, a 13-inch television set, a nightstand, and a work desk with a chair. Abutting the bed was a private bathroom, with a shower stall, toilet, and sink. A bedroom closet contained three towels. Though modest, the accommodations surpassed Chuck's expectations. He had envisioned something like a military barracks, with dozens of raw recruits in bunks and sharing a communal bathroom.

He sat on the bed flipping through channels. It was just the major networks, CNN, and Fox News. Finding the selections uninteresting, he fell back unto the bed, intent on taking a nap. But his mind on the day's revelations. And on Sarah. Surprisingly, disproportionately on Sarah, despite his father's disclosures . . . about his mother. Focusing, Chuck managed to push Sarah out of his thoughts, and turn to what his father had told him. He didn't quite doubt his father . . . but he sensed there was something Stephen wasn't telling him. It had been so long ago. He was just a boy, only seven years old. But if she was just going on a mission, wouldn't she kiss them goodbye? Say that she was coming back? Chuck didn't remember her doing that. She was just . . . gone. There one day, disappeared the next. And wouldn't his father keep reassuring them that she was coming home? Chuck didn't remember his father doing that either. He just remembered Stephen retreating, into a shell. Of course, he was seven. His memories were a jumbled mess. He could be remembering things wrong. Or his father could be telling half-truths now. Or perhaps it was a mix of faulty memories and misinformation. Running over the scenario in his mind, Chuck took comfort in the realization that his mom _hadn't_ just abandoned him and Ellie. It wasn't her fault, her choice. Then he hated himself for thinking that way: no matter what his feelings about his mother had been, because it meant that she wasn't out there, somewhere. She was dead, and had been for roughly 20 years. Slowly, his comfort turned to mourning, then to a mix of comfort and mourning.

In the midst of his mind racing, Chuck heard a knock on the door. His initial thought was that it was Sarah, but he quickly suppressed any such hope. She wouldn't come to his room. Not here, not now. Not with the NSA, CIA watching their every move. Perhaps his father, then? Quite possibly. It didn't matter. The answer rested on the other side of the door. Chuck would find out soon enough. He rose from the bed and answered the door. Standing in his hallway was the elegant figure of Roan Montgomery, decked out in a tweed suit. Roan's right hand held a bottle of scotch. His left hand embraced two tumbler glasses. Roan spoke. "Charles, it's been too long. I come bearing gifts. May I enter?"

Chuck waived Roan in, and Roan quickly took a seat on the chair by the desk.

"General Beckman filled me in on that little science experiment in your head." Roan said.

"She read you in on the Intersect?" Chuck asked, surprised. Roan hadn't been given that knowledge during their previous mission together. And secrecy for the 2.0 remained paramount.

Roan acknowledged the point with a soft nod. "Diane felt it pertinent to do so. Not only will I be one of your instructors here, but she has a little mission for me."

Chuck responded, curiously. "The General mentioned something about appointing an 'objective' third party to watch over Casey and Sarah, to supervise us. Is that you?"

Roan laughed, then shook his head. "No. We discussed it, briefly. But we both agreed that would be a terrible idea. I'm not organized or sober enough for an assignment like that. Diane will have to find another Charlie to watch over her Angels. No, her assignment for me is something different."

"Which is?" Chuck inquired.

Roan opened the scotch and poured two fingers into each glass. He stood up and handed one glass to Chuck. "To be your friend, Charles."

"I don't understand." Chuck said.

Roan clanked the glasses together, as if making a toast, and took a sip from his tumbler. "Charles, the spy world is tough. Diane knows that better than anyone. Everyone needs someone to talk to."

"I have Sarah and Casey," Chuck said, his tone almost protesting.

Roan conceded the point, but explained. "You do. But, sometimes, you're going to need an outlet who isn't your _girlfriend_, or your partner, or your boss. Someone you can trust, who's in the spy game, but who keeps a respectful distance. A friend. Everyone in the spy world has them. Diane has me. Sarah has Carina. Even Casey has people."

Chuck swallowed his scotch. "Beckman doesn't exactly see eye-to-eye with me. . ."

Roan got the insinuation. He breathed in the scotch's aroma and spoke. "You're wondering if you can trust me. How do you know that I won't rat you out to the General? I see your point." Roan mused for a bit, then continued: "Charles, let me tell you a story. I wasn't always a spy. A long time ago . . . a lifetime ago . . . I studied to take Holy Orders."

"You were a Priest?" Chuck asked, stunned.

Roan shook him off, then took another gulp from the tumbler. "No. I dropped out three days before my final vows. Let's just say that celibacy didn't agree with me. But I learned the importance of the confessional. . . the value of trust, of secrecy. It's one of the reasons why I became so good at what I do. I'll keep your confidences, just like I keep Diane's. Diane knows that, respects that. It's why she asked me. And I why I accepted. . . ."

Roan took yet another sip from his tumbler. He swirled the scotch in his mouth, then swallowed. "More than that, this job . . . it can dehumanize you, especially if you don't have anyone to talk to. You may not believe this, but no one wants that. Not me. Not Diane."

"I kinda figured she wanted a robot who took orders." Chuck said.

Roan shook his head. "That kind of agent would get killed pretty quickly. We need ingenuity. We need critical thinking. And, perhaps most importantly, we need the ability to see the broader picture. Nobody thinks they are the villain. Everyone, Charles, believes that they are the hero of their own story. That goes for General Beckman. It also goes for many of your adversaries. To reach your potential Charles, you need to understand not only your perspective . . . but other perspectives as well. That's the key not just to any successful seduction, but also any successful intelligence operation. To understand what your mark, your opponent, your adversary wants . . . why they want it, and whether you can give it to them, in a manner of speaking. Robots can't do that Charles. Not yet anyway."

Roan paused, and took another healthy gulp from his tumbler. "There's another reason we don't want robots. . . fundamentally, we're in this business to help people. To save lives. To make the world a better place. Agents who lose their humanity forget that. They might accomplish a specific mission objective, but they are prone to miss the forest for the trees. Stay human, Charles, no matter what anyone else tells you. On that note. . . regarding you and Agent Walker. . . I've been pulling for both of you. I haven't convinced the General _yet_, but I'm trying."

Chuck nodded, inaudibly expressing gratitude for Roan's efforts.

"Oh, and one more thing," Roan stated. "I have something else to give you." Roan pulled a plain white slip of paper out of his suit jacket pocket.

"What is it?" Chuck asked.

"My private phone number. I meant what I said, Charles. Give me a call." Roan folded the paper and placed it in the pocket of Chuck's shirt. Then Roan turned around, went back to the desk and retrieved the scotch. Picking it up and cradling it in his right arm, he walked to the door. At the entryway to the door, Roan offered some parting words.

"Dinner will be delivered to your room in about an hour. I suggest you make it an early night. Training starts tomorrow. You'll be seeing me. . . for seduction class. In the meantime, well, Mr. Bartowski, I'll be watching your career with great interest."

* * *

A/N: Remember, this is almost a total AU from the end of Season 2 onward. This Mary was never a CIA Agent. And, much like Shaw, if there's a Volkoff in this universe, he places no part in this story. . . So don't expect "canon" based revelations. They ain't happening. Things will be different, unpredictable.

Next chapter, Chuck goes into training. And this story ventures into comedy.

If someone would post to the Chuck FanFiction Facebook Group, I'd be very appreciative!

Thoughts? Comments?


	4. Chuck vs The Farm Part 2

A/N: Thanks again for **David Carner** for the beta read.

I don't own Chuck or these characters. I'm not making money from this.

* * *

"Col. Casey, Agent Walker, _Asset_, good evening. Please report. How did the mission at the French Embassy go last night?" General Beckman asked.

"Well, as you know General, our attendance at the party was meant as a simple test of the new Intersect's language abilities. Could Chuck flash, and converse fluently in French?" Sarah responded.

"And? Did he flash?" General Beckman asked.

Sarah sighed as she spoke. "Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is that Chuck flashed without passing out and going catatonic. I suppose it's also good that Chuck could understand the French, or at least he claims he did."

Chuck interjected. "Not 'claims.' I could understand everything. I don't what the big deal is."

General Beckman raised her left eyebrow. "And the bad news?"

Sarah sighed again, then responded. "Um, when Chuck spoke, it was Latin. Pure classical Latin. But with a really bad American accent. The French. . . the French thought we were making fun of them. Chuck was, um, escorted out by security." Sarah responded.

Chuck looked down at his shoes, embarrassed.

Casey grunted, then interjected. "The moron kept speaking Latin all night long. He forgot how to speak English. Three hours later and he was all ''autem calce me testes.'"

"What the hell does that mean?" General Beckman asked.

"You don't want to know." Casey answered.

"There's more." Sarah sighed again. "This morning, we wanted to see if it was just a fluke. So I spoke Italian to him."

"And?" the General inquired, rubbing her forehead in frustration.

Casey laughed. "Pure Latin. From what we can figure out, the eggheads didn't teach the Intersect to distinguish between Romance languages. It responds to all of them as Latin."

Sarah chimed in, trying to suppress an amused smile. "Um. There was a twist with the Italian. Chuck, um, felt the need to finish every statement with the phrase 'Carthago delenda est.'"

"Excuse me?" General Beckman queried, sternly.

"It means 'Carthage must be destroyed.' The Roman Senator Cato the Censor ended every speech . . ."

General Beckman interrupted. "I'm familiar with Roman history, Agent Walker."

"Heh," Casey emitted a quarter-giggle, then groaned. "Something else, General. Even after the Latin flash mostly faded, Chuck kept repeating that crap all afternoon. 'Casey, can you pass the coffee, Carthago delenda est.' 'I wonder how Ellie and Awesome are doing on their honeymoon, Carthago delenda est.' 'I'm headed to the bathroom, Carthago delenda est.'"

General Beckman examined Chuck skeptically. "Chuck, whatever would possess you to do that?"

Chuck looked flummoxed. He stammered a response. "Um, I can't quite explain it. For some reason, I just felt it needed to be said. Repeatedly, it seems."

* * *

Sarah and Chuck met on the sparring mat.

Sarah got into a fighting posture and directed him. "Come at me, Chuck. Flash. Can you and the Intersect take me?"

Chuck backed off. "Sarah, I don't want to hurt you. You saw what I did to those Ring agents."

Sarah pressed. "I'll be fine. Come at me. We need to see if you can repeat it. And we need to see if you go catatonic again. We've got med teams standing by."

Chuck stood motionless, and shook his head. "No. I'm not going to risk hurting you."

Sarah quipped back. "Fine. The hard way then." She charged him and tried to land a roundhouse kick. Immediately, Chuck flashed and dodged it. Then he came after her. As he did, a bright smile cracked her face. She tried hard to stifle her laughs.

"Again" she cried.

Chuck came at her again. Again, Sarah dodged. This time, she had less success controlling herself, and emitted a few chuckles.

"Again" she demanded.

Once more, Chuck came at her. Yet again, he missed. Sarah bowled over on the floor, laughing hysterically.

"What's so funny?" Chuck asked.

"You were right, the first time we met. . . Real ballerinas are tall. About 6'4 I'd say."

"Huh?" Chuck responded.

Charles Bartowski had been prancing around the mat, expertly performing ballet steps. And he was utterly unaware of it. Ninety seconds later, his eyes swirled in his head, the lights blinded him, and he crumpled to the mat, passed out. He would not awake for three hours.

* * *

Chuck and Sarah entered a Georgetown bar. From a distance, they saw Roan Montgomery waiving at them from a table. Two empty martini glasses rested beside him. A full one was in Roan's right hand.

"Charles, Sarah, so good of you both to join me," Roan said, slurring his words a bit, "Here, for the two of you." He handed Chuck a microphone, and Sarah an ear piece. Shortly thereafter, Roan put an ear piece in his own ear.

"What's this for?" Chuck asked, pointing to microphone.

"To enable Sarah and I to listen in on tonight's lesson, grade you, as it were." Roan responded.

"Lesson?" Chuck inquired.

Roan motioned with his hands towards the bar, where several unattached young women were standing. "Chuck, welcome to seduction class. This bar is your textbook. Those women are a pop-quiz."

Chuck looked frazzled, puzzled. "So, let me get this straight, as part of my training, you want me to pick up a random girl at a bar and seduce her? And, Sarah, you're ok with this?"

Sarah stayed mum. But Roan clarified the night's objectives. "You don't need to sleep with her. That's not the point. We just need to assess your skills. Can you charm a stranger? Get them to divulge personal details about themselves? Bend them to your will? We just need you to get her to the point where she _agrees _to go home with you."

Roan smiled devilishly, then continued. "Anything after that is, well, _extra credit._" As Roan finished his comment, Sarah flashed him a wicked look, which she quickly covered up.

"And you want me to do all this, in Hebrew?" Chuck asked, looking up at the sign. It was Ulpan Night, sponsored by the Israeli-American Affairs Council. The entire bar was filled with a mix of native-born Israelis and American college students studying Hebrew.

"Yes," Roan replied. "We might as well keep testing that thing in your head. We know there's a bug with Romance languages. But we don't know if it goes beyond that."

Chuck turned to Sarah, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, noticing Roan's eyes upon them.

"You're sure you're ok with this?" Chuck asked.

"It's work, Chuck. Nothing more," she replied, dismissively.

With that, Chuck approached the bar. He took a seat next to a svelte dark-skinned woman of Ethiopian-Israeli descent, wearing tight jeans and a peach top.

Chuck fumbled with words for an appropriate introduction. Hearing the side conversations around him triggered a flash, which let him make his move in Hebrew.

"Eh," he said. "Come her often?" he asked in Hebrew.

The dark-skinned woman looked disinterestedly at Chuck, then turned away to focus on her drink. It was a beer.

"I'm Chuck. I'm an American, I came here to practice Hebrew." he continued, still in Hebrew.

"I know, I can tell," she answered curtly, in English. "Your accent is terrible. You sound like one of those satires on _Eretz Nehaderet_." She took a long gulp from her beer.

"I don't follow." Chuck said.

"It's a sketch comedy show. Like your Saturday Night Live. Except actually funny."

A small smile grew on Chuck's face. He answered her English with his badly-accented Hebrew. "Yes, I'll admit, my accent is bad . . . but I can understand very well. Try me."

The dark-skinned woman immediately went on a three-minute diatribe, in rapid-fire Hebrew, about an obscure mathematical proof. She then asked Chuck to tell her, in Hebrew, what she said.

Chuck grinned. "Well, I didn't capture everything," he said, drawing a smirk from his companion, "but that's only because I didn't understand all the math involved. I know it was something about Dirichlet's theorem on arithmetic progressions." Again, he spoke in perfect but badly-accented Hebrew.

The woman's eyes expanded beyond their sockets, and she smiled glowingly. "Nehama. My name is Nehama. I'm a Ph.D candidate in Math at Georgetown." She extended her hand, which Chuck shook.

"And, I'm Chuck. But you already knew that. Say, can I refresh your vagina?"

Nehama looked stupefied. "Excuse me?"

Chuck tried to explain. "Your vagina is empty. I'm offering to fill it. . .." Nehama sat there aghast.

He pointed at her near-empty beer glass. "I'd like to buy you another beer."

Nehama giggled, figuring out his gaffe. Covering her mouth with her hand to control her laughter, she switched to English. "You meant _cos _(glass), not _coos_ (vagina)."

The Intersect failed to process the subtle difference in pronunciation. Chuck replied, confused. "Yes, just want I said. Can I buy you another _coos _(vagina) of beer? _Cooshi_ needs refilling too."

Roan listening in, spritzed his martini everywhere in shock, then gasped. The former Seminary student had caught the Hebrew reference.

"What?" Sarah asked, inquisitively. She knew many languages, but Hebrew wasn't one of them.

Roan explained. "He meant to say _cosi_, which is rather archaic, but means 'my glass.' What he actually said . . . well, um, . . . it's a racial slur. It's basically the closest thing Hebrew has to the N-Word."

Sarah covered her mouth with her hands, standing in horrified embarrassment. "Oh my."

Meanwhile, Chuck continued rambling, unaware of the offense.

"And maybe, after we get our new vaginas, we can get impregnated at a table over there." Chuck said, continuing to bumble through grossly mispronounced Hebrew.

Nehama slapped him and walked away, disgusted. Sarah and Roan, from a distance, could see Nehama approaching one of the bouncers. Sarah and Roan grasped Chuck and escorted him from the bar.

* * *

"Just point and shoot at the target. Watch the recoil." Casey instructed.

Chuck flashed. But, instead of marksmanship, the Intersect flashed him thousands of pictures of gunshot victims. Chuck vomited. Then passed out – this time not as a side effect from the Intersect, but just because the images made him ill.

* * *

"Report, the three of you." General Beckman demanded, her voice protruding from a large monitor in an office at the Farm.

"We took Chuck to karaoke last night. We were attempting to assess the Intersect's musical abilities. At first, it went well. With the help of the Intersect, Chuck successfully performed a country-western ballad." Sarah responded.

"And then what?" General Beckman asked.

Sarah sighed deeply. "Um. . . we wanted to test if he could sing something more modern. It might be helpful for future covers. It was supposed to be Rock the Casbah, by the Clash."

"What happened?" General Beckman inquired.

Sarah took another deep-breath. Then she deadpanned her report, trying to suppress her frustration. "It was the Adhan, General. The Islamic call to prayer."

Casey chimed in: "For what it's worth, it was a beautiful rendition. Other than his accent, which was horrific, it was one of the best I've heard, and I served two years in Afghanistan. The kid can sing."

"Why is that even in the Intersect?" Chuck asked.

"It could save your life someday, Mr. Bartowski," General Beckman responded. "Unfortunately, there are a number of groups out of there who will have no trouble killing infidels they capture, but will spare pious Muslims. That said, it's not something you'd usually hear in a Virginia bar."

Sarah sighed yet again, and continued. "Um, there's more General. We barely avoided a mini-riot. There was a group of Pakistani grad students two tables over. They, um, got offended. Understandably, they thought Chuck was mocking them, or their faith. One of them got in Chuck's face. . . "

Casey interjected. "He flashed General. He swung a punch and decked the guy. He looked like he was going to take off his head. I had to tranq him."

Sarah felt the need to jump in. "The local authorities are investigating the incident as an anti-Muslim hate crime. It's a miracle nothing wound up in the local papers."

Casey turned towards Chuck, and interrogated him sarcastically. "Bartowski, what did I tell you about committing hate crimes?"

Chuck looked down at his shoes. He responded sheepishly. "Don't commit them."

Chuck paused, then stammered, "I . . . I . . . couldn't control it, General. It's like auto-pilot. When the program perceives a threat, it goes all Bruce Lee on me, on everyone."

The General threw up her hands. "At this point, until we get the Intersect fixed, all I can say is . . . Mr. Bartowski, you're going back in the van!"

* * *

"What is the meaning of this call, Col. Casey?" General Beckman asked, her irritated visage radiating forth from a telescreen at a Camp Peary conference room. Col. John Casey stood in the room, alone.

Casey looked squarely at the General, maintaining a professional demeanor. "General, it's about Chuck's training. The non-Intersect stuff."

"What about it?" General Beckman inquired.

"It's not standard agent training. Not all of it, anyway. He's also doing a lot of, well, I guess the word would be 'basic training.' Crawling through the mud with a rubber duck. Daylight marches, that kind of thing." Casey responded.

General Beckman stared intently at her junior officer. "You want to know why? Fair enough. Col. Casey, how would you judge the Asset's physical fitness, his capabilities?"

Casey raised his eyebrows. He pondered the question for a few seconds than answered. "He's alright. Somewhat below average for a person of his age and build. But not out-of-shape."

The General pressed her point. "And how is his physical fitness compared to an agent, or even a raw Private straight out of boot camp?"

Casey conceded her point. "Decidedly below average. The basic training stuff. He's doing ok. If he was in boot camp, he'd pass. But he'd be in roughly the 30th percentile."

The General smiled. "You see my concern. We need the Asset field-ready. With the non-intelligence portions of the Intersect malfunctioning, that means doing some things the natural way."

Casey stared at the General. She wasn't lying, but he could sense that there was something else. There was something she wasn't telling him. "Is that the only reason, General?"

General Beckman responded with a sly smile. "Good night, John," she said.

A half-second later, General Beckman disconnected the telescreen.

* * *

"Open your mouth" a nondescript doctor said to Chuck, propped on a stool inside the an examination room at the Walter Reed Medical Center. Casey and Sarah stood by Chuck's side.

"Ahhhhghghg." Chuck responded, gargling as the tongue compressor made him gag.

"And now your ears" the doctor commented, as his otoscope probed into Chuck's right eardrum.

"Is this really necessary?" Chuck asked, as the doctor moved the otoscope from his right to his left ear."

"Just routine. Interesting. . .," the doctor commented.

"Huh?" Chuck asked, inquisitively.

"Chuck, have you been experiencing hearing loss in your left ear?" the doctor asked.

"No, why?" Chuck asked.

The doctor laughed. "Because you've got a gargantuan ball of earwax jabbed deep inside it. I've never seen something so atrocious. Do you use headphones?"

"Yeah. . ." Chuck confessed.

"Hold on, just one moment, I think I can get it" the doctor interrupted, jabbing a long, thin set of tweezers into Chuck's ear.

A hard, roughly rectangular block of earwax emerged. It was roughly half-a-thumb's length long, and about a 1/2 inch think. Dried blood covered its exterior, giving the block a dark reddish color.

"That was in my ear?" Chuck asked.

"Yeah." The doctor responded.

"Oww. . . . so loud!" Chuck replied.

The doctor laughed. "Everything's just a bit louder now, right? I'm not surprised. With what you had in your ear, you probably had hearing loss of 40-60% in your left ear. Don't worry, it will only take you a day or two to adjust to hearing properly again. Now, one last thing. . .," the doctor commented, procuring a long sharp needle, "pull up the shirt on your left arm and make a fist."

"Now what, some super-secret spy cocktail, right?" Chuck asked.

"It's a flu shot, num nuts," Casey interjected. "We can't have our agents bedridden for a week with easily preventable illnesses."

Just then, Chuck, Sarah, and Casey heard a knocking on the door. The door opened, and Stephen Bartowski entered.

"Knock, knock. . . I hope I'm not interrupting." Stephen said.

"Dad?" Chuck expressed.

"Yeah, I have news. . . I've been following, reading, your progress reports, the incidents with the Intersect. I think I know what's causing them. Well, at least some of them." Stephen answered. He glanced up at the insignia of the United States that adorned the room's wall with visceral scorn. "Freaking idiots," he commented.

Chuck looked at his dad, bewildered. "I don't understand."

Stephen explained. "I thought the NSA/CIA were using their own custom-designed Intersect. I was my understanding that's what they put into the Cube that I adjusted for Bryce. I had no idea that they would be so foolish, so stupid, so reckless."

Chuck sat speechless. Sarah and Casey shared his confused look. None of them spoke. Eventually, Stephen continued.

"The new Intersect, what you downloaded . . . most of it is the NSA's/CIA's work, especially the intelligence data. But they also smushed together pieces of the Fulcrum Intersect that I was working on, that the NSA/CIA salvaged from Black Rock. I guess they thought they could take the best that Fulcrum created, the best that I created, and build the ultimate program. But they were in such a rush to get the new Intersect operational that they melded everything together haphazardly, sloppily. They didn't bother studying what Fulcrum . . . _what I_ . . . put in there. There should have been weeks of tests. They did it all in two days. And they didn't bother to consult me."

Stephen shook his head, put his hands on his scalp, and pulled out some of his own hair. "If they had just spoken with me, told me what they were doing. . . they would have realized that I _sabotaged the damn thing_. Most of what you've been experiencing . . . the Latin, the ballet moves, the bad translations and mispronunciations . . . . it's all my work, _my masterpiece_. I may have been captured. But like hell I was going to give Fulcrum a working Intersect. I made sure that whatever I designed would be useless in the field - more of a liability than an advantage. But I also wanted to make sure it was all non-lethal. So I played a little practical joke on my old friend Ted. The Intersect, what you downloaded, it's littered with bugs that I put in there to make it misfire."

Chuck and Casey remained speechless. Sarah spoke up: "Can you fix it?"

Stephen shook his head. "Maybe, eventually, I don't know. The thing about programming, it's easier to put bugs in than to get them out. And the sloppy way they meshed the Fulcrum Intersect with the CIA/NSA Intersect? A lot of the code got lost permanently when you destroyed the computer. And a lot of what we've managed to recover isn't my code. I'm going to work on it. But it's going to take time."

Stephen paused for a few seconds. "The thing is, son, I don't think my little practical joke explains everything. The passing out, for instance. I sensed you were holding back earlier. I need to know. . . have there been any incidents you haven't told me about?""

Chuck looked down at his shoes, away from his Dad's face. Even without Beckman there, it was damn embarrassing. Not something that he wanted to talk about with his father. Eventually, Sarah pepped up.

"Once. When we were, um, kissing," she said. Hearing the words out of her mouth, Chuck's face turned beet red with humiliation.

"Gross." Casey quipped.

"Go on," Stephen said, somewhat uncomfortably.

Sarah took in a big gulp of air and continued: "We were kissing, _seriously._ Passionately. Then Chuck flashed . . . and he started kissing me, _touching me_, differently. The way that Bryce used to . . . like he was following a 'Bryce'-seduction skills program built into the Intersect."

Casey turned towards Chuck. "Heh. Looks like your girlfriend's not the only one who knows what it feels like to have Bryce Larkin inside of them," he jested.

Chuck turned away, then looked down at his shoes again. "Thanks for reminding me," he said.

"Anyway," Sarah resumed, "we broke it off. . . the kissing, I mean. We we're mortified. Shortly thereafter, Chuck collapsed. Like he did when he fought Fulcrum. He was out for about 20 minutes."

Stephen nodded. "So it only happens on skills flashes. But not just that . . . _physical _skills flashes, right? You haven't passed out from using languages."

Chuck nodded back. "Yeah."

"Ok, I have a theory," Stephen conjectured. "The physical skills flashes all send 'muscle memory' information to your body, telling your body how to move in a certain way. The information flashes don't. The languages don't either, particularly because the buggy program I designed can't do proper accents. My hunch . . . my theory is that those 'muscle memory' signals are disrupting the way your body operates, and causing it to shut down temporarily. The problem is, I don't if I'm right. And, if I am right, I don't know how to fix it. And, although your scans are normal so far, I don't know if continued use of the skills flashes will eventually cause long-term damage."

"So where does that leave me?" Chuck asked.

"Like Beckman said . . . back in the van." Casey responded.

Hearing the conversation, Sarah pondered its meaning. The thought that the Intersect, the passing out, could be harming Chuck has been in the back of her mind. But, so far, Stephen said the tests were normal. And, with the Intersect misfiring, at least temporarily, Chuck would be relatively safe . . . safe from use of the Intersect in the field . . . safe from the regular dangers that field operatives face . . . and safe from the danger he might be ordered to cause others. As she thought deeper, an unexpectedly bright smile blossomed on her face. She could keep her Chuck for just a little bit longer.

* * *

Roan swirled a can Diet Sprite in his left hand, speaking into his cellphone. A video image of the Ring's Chair appeared on his screen. "Greetings, Madame Chair . . . Apologies, but present circumstances will prevent me from briefing the Chamber directly this evening. However, I have a report that I wish you to provide in my stead."

The Chair responded. "Understandable. Please go on."

Roan took a sip from his soda. "In brief, Bartowski's destruction of the Intersect has proven to be a blessing in disguise. The new Intersect is glitchy as all heck. If we had used it, the results would have been disastrous. More to the point, the junior Bartowski's status as the Intersect's Host has resulted in Stephen Bartowski's, Orion's, willing participation in fixing it."

The Chair raised one of her eyebrows. "An unexpected but welcomed surprise."

"Madame Chair, whether he realizes it or not, the elder Bartowski is now, functionally, our Asset. I suggest we treat him as much . . . keep him safe, offer him all the protection we can. Without his assistance, our Great Cause may never come to fruition."

The Chair nodded, without displaying any emotion. "Agreed. Anything else?" she stated.

Roan acknowledged her with a respectful nod, then continued. "Yes, the younger Bartowski. We also need to update his status. Shift our policy from one of non-intervention to active protection. Everything Orion is doing, is he doing for his son's benefit. Orion will be of no use to us if his son is a corpse."

The Chair pondered for a bit. "I see your point, and am inclined to agree with you. I will present your recommendations to the Chamber." The Chair moved her hand in the direction of terminating the transmission, and uttered "To the End . . ."

Roan, however, interrupted her. "One of more thing, Madame Chair. It seems that Orion figured out a way to plant mental suggestions into the Intersect - such as the compulsion to say a particular phrase in Latin. He intended it as some sort of 'joke' on Fulcrum."

The Chair stared back with intense interest. "Intriguing. This development could advance our plans considerably." The Chair smiled brightly. "To the End of History, Revered Delegate."

Roan smiled back, "To the End of History, Madame Chair."

The video connection ended, and Roan took a long, healthy gulp from his can of Diet Sprite.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is my response to one of my many gripes with Season 3. It didn't bring the funny. The idea of malfunctioning skills flashes was comedy gold, but was virtually underutilized. I hope the jokes hit and made you all laugh - let me know.

Next chapter, we finally meet the fourth member of the team. Beckman's appointed supervisor. Let's just say that he/she isn't what you'll be expecting.

I'd like to thank you all for the reviews and PMs, which give me the encouragement to keep writing. I'd also like to thank Kapcer983 for posting the previous chapters to the Facebook group. If he, or someone else, can post this chapter as well, I'd appreciate it.


	5. Chuck vs The Mysterious Mr Hubbard

A/: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money on this.

Chuck, Sarah, and Casey peered over the morning reports. The dailies. Chuck remained in training. But the dailies kept coming. And Chuck's information flashes were still useful. Indeed, they were the only part of the Intersect that actually seemed to be functioning properly. The team had been at it for two hours, and were just ready to take a mid-morning break when they heard a knock on the door.

"I hope I'm not interjecting," asked a middle-aged man who entered the room. He looked to be in his late-40s, perhaps early-50s. Small circular glasses covered his soft gray eyes. Mostly bald, the hair on the sides of his head was turning from their natural golden-brown color to gray. A slight combover grazed the top of his scalp, topping off his 5 foot, 6 inch thin frame. He wore a gray suit, not freshly pressed but not overly wrinkly. It was clearly purchased off-the rack, at a discount men's store. A drab, navy blue tie hung from his neck. He looked like a tax accountant, and not a terribly successful one. A faded, plain gold wedding band stood wrapped around his left ring finger. If compared to a celebrity, the image of Richard Sanders, the actor who played Less Nessman from WKRP in Cincinnati, might come to mind.

"Who are you?" Chuck asked.

"How very Vorlon of you, Mr. Bartowski. Can I call you Chuck?" the man asked.

Chuck nodded yes. The faint hint of a smile graced Chuck's lips, impressed by the Babylon 5 reference. Seeing Chuck's consent, the man continued. "Chuck, as you know in this business, _who we are_ is a complicated question. I am many things. For instance, as you might have surmised. I am a nerd, like you are. But if your question intended to ask me for my name, then you may call me Walter Hubbard. Walt, for short. It's a pleasure to make the acquaintance of all of you."

He may have looked like an accountant. But, while carrying a certain dignity, his voice was friendly, soft, comforting. Not stiff, but also not overly charismatic. An earnest type of friendly, akin to that of a mentoring but slightly eccentric college professor. If distilled down into one word, it might be "charm." Whatever it was, it radiated from him.

"What do you want?" Sarah grilled. Her voice was sharp, curt.

Walt grinned. "Ah. . . and now I see who is aligned with the Shadows." Walt shot a look at Chuck, whose amusement was evident. The reference clearly went above both Sarah's and Casey's heads. They looked irritated, annoyed.

Walt recognized that he may have pushed his nerdom too far. "More seriously, what I want is to fulfill General Beckman's orders. She sent me here. She thought it best to have me make the introductions now, before we all get back to Burbank. I am taking charge of Project Bartowski. I am your new boss."

"You're a spy?" Chuck asked, somewhat incredulously, at the short, bespectacled, thin man in front of him.

"You were expecting Superman?" Walt asked, sarcastically.

"Um, no, it's just . . ." Chuck responded, somewhat incoherently. The truth is, he was expecting Superman. The spies he had met – Casey, Sarah, Carina, Cole – they all fit a certain type. Walt wasn't that type.

"Chuck, do you know what the first rule of being a spy is?" Walt inquired.

"Shaken, not stirred?" Chuck responded, in a bad Scottish accent, faux-mimicking Sean Connery. He and Sarah chuckled slightly. But the cold glare emanating from both Walter and Casey closed their mouths.

"Guess again." Walter stated. His response was formal. Without a trace of humor. But not harsh.

Chuck thought about the question a bit. He remembered his talks with Sarah and Carina. "Spies don't fall in love?" he responded, voicing his response more like a question than an answer.

Walt shook his head, now visibly frustrated. "You young agents with your God-damn James Bond complexes. Who the hell ever told you that?"

Sarah and Chuck exchanged looks, but neither gave a verbal response. Casey covered up an inner laugh.

Hearing no answer from his new team, Walt continued, "It doesn't matter. For the record, the first rule of being a spy, is DON'T LOOK LIKE A GOD-DAMN SPY."

Walt perused Sarah and Casey. Sarah was wearing tight-fitting black plans, and a blue top. Her makeup looked impeccable. Casey was dressed in a government-issue well-tailored black suit, with a red tie.

Walt grew a smile. "I see that _all _of you have a lot to learn. Perhaps it's best that we get to know each other in a less formal setting." Walt scribbled something on a piece of paper. "This is my home address, in Fairfax. Come over tomorrow night at 7 p.m. for dinner. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Who?" Chuck asked.

Walt's face brightened, and the charm returned to both his aura and his voice. "My wife."

* * *

Chuck, Sarah, and Casey knocked on the door of a modest red-shingled ranch house in Fairfax, Virginia. The time was 7:02 p.m. They were greeted by a slender woman in her mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a maroon sweater. She was of above-average attractiveness, but not what anyone would call a knock out. The kind of person who, when she was younger, men might hit on at a bar, but who almost certainly never turned any heads walking on the street. Her hair was dyed-blond, covering up what was now assuredly mostly gray.

She extended her hand and smiled. "I'm Meredith. 'Merry' for short. Pleased to meet you. Walt is just setting the table, come in."

They entered the house. It looked nondescript. Like any normal suburban house. Pictures of Walt and Merry adorned the walls. As did pictures of two children in varying stages of growth. Merry saw Sarah examining one of the pictures. "That's Katie," Meredith responded, "our daughter. She lives in Boston. We don't see much of her." Sarah could detect a hint of sadness in Merry's voice. There was evidently some family tension in play. Merry's eyes peaked up when they turned to the next picture on the wall. "And that's Ben, our son. He just graduated high school last year. He's studying at George Washington."

Sarah inspected the room, the house. She was amazed. . . it was all so, _normal_, ordinary. The couch was worn, with small holes in the sides. The living room floor clearly had seen better days. The television was one of those old, heavy CRT models. Not even a flatscreen. Sarah bathed in the regularity, finding it strangely warming. Everything about this house, about Walt and Meredith, it was so _unlike _the life she was told spies had to live. She had to ask. "Mind me asking . . ."

"You want to know if I'm a spy too, right?" Merry said, smiling. "I'm not. But I've been married to one long enough. Coming up on 32 years next month."

Walt entered the room, in the midst of uncorking a bottle of wine. Overhearing his wife, his eye twinkled. "Don't sell yourself short. . . . It's more accurate to say that you've never been _employed _as a spy. You've certainly worked as one, at least informally."

Sarah looked confused. "I don't understand."

Walt finished opening the wine, then answered. "I spent most of my career under diplomatic cover. Moving from one Embassy or Consulate to another. My kids think I'm State Department. At least officially, most of my co-workers were supposed to think so also. That meant that my wife had to play the part of the dutiful Foreign Service wife. Throwing cocktail parties. Mingling and dancing at diplomatic shindigs, that sort of thing. And, of course, passing along anything useful she learned to me."

Walt walked over and gave his wife an affectionate kiss. "My wife was particularly good at that last part. She's one of the best unpaid, unofficial spies in the CIA's ranks."

Chuck looked a little confused. "Diplomatic cover?"

Walt explained. "In public, I was a Political/Economic Officer for the State Department. In reality, I oversaw operations, quarterbacked missions, gathered and assessed intelligence, managed agents, that sort of thing. That included a few postings as a Section Chief. But for the past four years, for Ben's high school years, I've been stateside at Langley."

"You weren't a field agent?" Sarah asked.

Walt laughed. "I was. For about six years, when I was younger. And I've probably gone on a handful of missions since then. But no one can make a life doing that crap. And, frankly, it's a small part of what we do."

"Huh?" Chuck asked, bewildered.

Walt turned on the charm as he poured glasses of wine for everyone. "Chuck, what is it that you think spies do?"

"Blow stuff up, steal things, stop Fulcrum, save the world, get the girl, that kind of thing." Chuck commented.

Walt covered his mouth to stifle a few more laughs, then turned a friendly serious. "Real spies aren't Supermen, Chuck. They also aren't James Bond. Our job is to gather intelligence. Principally, that means cultivating people, _assets_."

Chuck flinched that the mention of the word. A bitter taste formed in his mouth. Sensing Chuck's discomfort, Walt placed his hand on Chuck's shoulder and flashed him a comforting smile. "I'm sorry, Chuck. An unfortunate choice of words. I meant no offense. On that point, we are still working on your exact status. But I do have some news that I think will make you happy. And, actually, you have Agent Walker's incompetence to thank for it."

Sarah froze in terror. She had no idea what Walt meant.

Walt turned towards Sarah, and addressed her sternly. "Tell me, Agent Walker. . . what moron came up with the bright idea to give you the cover of a food service worker, while putting you up in a fancy hotel, dressing you in designer clothes, adorning you with $2,000 handbags, and having you drive that damn Porsche?"

Sarah wasn't used to being left speechless. She stumbled to respond. "Um, it just sort of happened, it wasn't meant to be a long-term assign. . ."

Walt batted an eye and smiled. "Relax. I'm busting your balls. These things happen. But it does mean that we'll need to do some serious cover maintenance once we get back to Burbank. Say hello to your 'Uncle Walt.'"

Sarah remained confused. "I don't understand."

Walt explained. "We need to come up with a plausible explanation for your lifestyle. A wealthy-relative serving as your benefactor fits the bill. It also so happens that, superficially, we have a resemblance. Blond hair, light-colored eyes, fair features. I'd be a tough sell as your father. But, as say, a maternal Uncle? Quite passable. We also need to think of new cover professions for your team."

Walt turned affectionately towards Chuck, and continued. "Say, for example, a wealthy relative who takes a special interest in the well-being of his niece, and who was very impressed by his niece's boyfriend."

"Impressed?" Chuck asked.

Walt winked. "It's for the cover. But yes, from reading your mission reports, quite impressed. In any event, my plan is to set this team up with a cover front as an IT consulting company. My cover background will be as Sarah's uncle who made a fortune doing something tech or coding related. I'll take Chuck on as an apprentice, and hire Sarah to do back office work."

"And me?" Casey asked.

"You go back to selling refrigerators at the Buy More." Walt quipped.

Casey grunted. Walt laughed, and placed his hand on Casey's shoulder. "Just kidding, Col. Casey. The kind of work we'll be doing, we'll need far more flexibility with our schedules than a retail store will provide. We'll think of something for you to do. Although God help me trying to figure out why Sarah's uncle would hire her boyfriend's neighbor."

The rest of the evening passed swimmingly. The wine flowed in measured moderation. Walt and Chuck bonded over their shared love for Star Trek, Star Wars, and all things Isaac Asimov. And Sarah spent the evening glowing with surprise and contentment. She soaked in the normality. She reveled in it. And she found she loved it. It was a world that she had, at best heard vague rumors about, yet never seen or experienced for herself. Walt had figured it out. Somehow. He had the spy life. And he had the regular, normal life. The wife. The kids. The house in the suburbs. Of course, it wasn't "normal," normal. He raised his kids under diplomatic cover. Moving from posting to posting around the world every two or three years. That was bound to mess with a kid. But no more than the children of service members or actual diplomats. And most of them turn out ok. Statistically, Sarah knew, they turned about better than ok. He truly had the best of both worlds. Maybe, just maybe, after apprenticing under Langstom Graham's insanity, fate had given her a far kinder, wiser mentor. Then she brushed that thought from her mind. Spies don't think like that, she cursed underneath her breath. Yet, she had to acknowledge, she was thinking exactly like that, right now.

* * *

Three weeks later, his expedited training finished, the gang – Walter and Merry included - returned to Eccho Park. Chuck and Sarah had been gone a total of eight weeks. Almost two months. He'd barely exchanged a word with Ellie that whole time.

Chuck knocked on the door of his apartment in Eccho Park, the apartment he would soon be leaving. Behind him stood Sarah and Walt. As they stood waiting, Walt whispered in Chuck's ear "Remember, I have a daughter. Call her Beth."

About ten seconds later, a tall brunette opened the door, flanked by her new husband. "Ellie, welcome home!" Chuck exclaimed, "And Devon, how was the honeymoon!"

"Awesome, little bro. And you, Chuckster, two months globetrotting with Sarah. What's the word? Sarah! And . . . other guy I don't know." Devon Woodcomb responded.

Sarah made the introductions. "Ellie, it's great to see you all. This is my Uncle Walt. We visited him about a month ago, and he decided to fly out here."

Walt extended his hand, and made a respectful 1/8 bow in Ellie's direction. "It's a pleasure to meet both of you. Chuck has told me quite a bit about you."

Ellie looked quizzical. "Sarah never mentioned an Uncle Walt. In fact, she's barely mentioned anything about her family at all."

Walt cast a grin of disappointment. "She didn't? Who did you think has been paying for her Porsche, or her luxury apartment? It wasn't her shifts at that yogurt place." Walt said, slightly teasingly, placing his hand on Sarah's shoulder. Sarah blushed a bit, and faked a familial smile up at him.

"_Huh,"_ Elli and Devon both thought to themselves. "Please, Chuck, Sarah, Walt, come in . . . would you like some tea?"

Walt answered. "I'd love some, thank you."

Chuck, Sarah, Walt, and Devon sat down at the dining room table, while Ellie fixed three cups of tea. Within two minutes, Ellie returned and set the tea on coasters.

"Ellie, we have news." Chuck said, excitedly.

Ellie shrieked with joy. "You're engaged!"

Chuck stumbled through a response. "Um, no. In fact, I'm moving in with Casey. But that's not what I meant."

Ellie and Awesome both looked confused, dejected. _"Casey? Why the hell was Chuck moving in with Casey?"_ Ellie thought.

Walt noticed her reaction and tried to calm her. "Allow me to explain. Sarah and Chuck visited me and my wife up in Boston for several days. I have to say, your little brother really impressed me. He's quite brilliant. And I could see how much my favorite little niece was taken with him. Then he told me about his employment situation, or lack thereof. And it hit me.

My wife and I have been semi-retired for a few years. I made a lot of money developing software for a high-frequency trading algorithm. I sold the company three years ago. Since then, haven't really been doing much. Retirement at age 57 gets very boring. And we were both looking to move to a warmer climate. Then we met Chuck. Your brother has been wasting his potential at the Buy More.

Long story made short. . . I'm going to opening up a small cybersecurity company in the area. Custom anti-malware solutions, network firewalls, that kind of thing. I've asked Chuck to come on as my protege. Sarah will also be joining us as our office manager. Chuck gets a future, and I get to work with the daughter I never had."

Chuck looked confused. "I thought you told me you had a daughter. Beth, right?" Chuck said, interjecting.

Walt's face turned pale white. His tone grew serious, sullen. He sighed. "Well, let's just say that Beth is the daughter I did have."

Silence gripped the room. From Ellie's and Devon's point of view, Chuck had unwittingly hit upon a sore spot. Sarah smiled, then did her best to cover it up. _'Master spy work,' _she thought to herself. Any long-term cover needed to be well-rounded, three dimensional. To make the cover believable, Walt needed to be more than a cardboard cutout to Chuck's family. Yet, at the same time, deep-cover operatives needed to minimize questions about themselves, their past. With one small stroke, Walt had accomplished both: he'd given Ellie and Devon enough proof that he was a real person, complete with family tension, while made it sufficiently uncomfortable for them to probe further. Impressed with Walt's handling, she caught Chuck looking at her with confusion. She mouthed one word "later." Then she played her role in Uncle Walt's little performance: the best way to avoid awkward conversations was to change the subject. So, as a dutiful niece, she began begging like a teenage girl, tugging on Walt's arm. "That's not the best part. . . tell them the best part, Uncle Walt, about Chuck."

Walt snapped out of his sullenness, and the friendly charm returned. "Oh yes, the salary. Do you mind if I tell your sister and brother-in-law?"

Chuck motioned for him to continue. Of course, it was all a cover. But, for once, the government was doing something other than screwing up his life, and he wasn't about to kick the gift horse in the mouth.

Walt smiled. "$95,000 to start, plus a bonus based on sales. Total comp could exceed $150k, or more, once we get off the ground."

Ellie squealed, clasping her hands together, while Devon gasped.

Walt continued. "Now, I want to make it clear. This isn't charity. Nor am I doing this just because I love my niece. In all candor, there's a reason why I'm opening a computer firm and not a yogurt franchise. I see Chuck's potential. I fully expect him to make me money. A _lot of money_. I'm thinking Scrooge McDuck, swimming in a money pit full of golden coins wealthy."

Ellie squealed again, but couldn't get the thought of Chuck moving in with Casey out of her head. She decided to press the issue. "I'm so happy for you Chuck. Thank you, Sarah. Thank you, Walt. Now, Chuck. . . what's this with you moving in with CASEY? It's none of my business, but I thought you and Sarah. . ."

Chuck opened his mouth, but Walt beat him to the punch. He motioned "down boy" with his hands, and spoke. "You can blame me for that too, Ellie. Let's just say that I have some. . . traditional, church-going values when it comes to relationships. Now, don't get me wrong, if your brother ever makes an honest woman out of my niece before God, I'll be very happy. And I'm not naïve enough to believe that my Sarah is still a virgin. I met that scumbag _Bruce_ that she was with. But there are certain lines that I'm not willing to let her cross. And cohabiting with a man, _living in sin_, is one of them, especially while she and her boyfriend are on my payroll."

Elli and Devon both unconsciously jumped back a few inches. This kind of talk was nearly unheard of in Southern California. They both liked "Uncle Walt" a lot less. Still, he was doing wonderful things for Chuck, so neither of them could truly dislike the man.

Chuck and Sarah shared a look, then turned their glaze towards Walt, both exhibiting genuine admiration. In one swift stroke, Walt's carefully constructed cover story ended Ellie's anxiety about both her brother's professional life, and - for the foreseeable future - her brother's personal life as well. Chuck speculated that Ellie would occasionally get on him about Walt's "values" and the "conditions" he placed on helping him and Sarah. But that was far preferable to taking on the blame himself, or attempting to shift it to Sarah. Moreover, by displaying moral values and attitudes that were practically unheard of in wealthy, secularist California, Walt gave Ellie and Devon one additional reason not to keep their distance from him – the better for the cover.

"Um, but Casey?" Ellie asked.

Chuck provided his pre-planned explanation, feigning sympathy for the big NSA lug. "Look, you're married now. I can't stay here. . . I shouldn't stay here. Casey's lonely. He offered to split the rent with me. And, with Morgan in Hawaii, who else am I going to live with?"

* * *

Walt greeted Sarah and Chuck, as they walked down the steps of the new Castle. "Agent Walker, Mr. Bartowski thank you for meeting me here."

"Huh, looks just like the old Castle." Chuck commented.

"Same designer." Walt bantered. "Just a new location. Hopefully, one unknown to the Ring. In any event, let me get on with the purpose of today's meeting . . . your status, Mr. Bartowski. Please, take a seat. You too Agent Walker."

Chuck and Sarah sat down at the conference table. Walt sat around them.

Walt put on his glasses and rustled through some papers. "I've reviewed the team's past mission reports and psych profiles. I have also spoken with General Beckman. I will be blunt. It is my understanding that Mr. Bartowski wishes to pursue a romantic relationship with you, Agent Walker, and that you share his desire in equal measure. Is that correct?" His tone was business-like. Devoid of emotion. If not for the subject matter, he might as well have been talking about office supplies.

"I don't know what you have heard, but Chuck and I are just. . ." Sarah interjected, defensively.

Walt cast a stern glance on her. "Sarah, I am not a harsh task-masker. I don't demand the impossible. But I require two things from the people who work for me: loyalty and honesty. Tell me the truth."

A wave of concern swept both Sarah's and Chuck's faces. "I don't know what you want me say, how to say. . ." Sarah quizzed, stumbling for words.

Walt interjected, maintaining his matter-of-fact office-supply tone. "Let me short-circuit matters. I expect honesty, but I provide honesty in return. I will never lie to you, Agent Walker. If you and Mr. Bartowski want to engage in a romantic relationship well, then, it's ok by me."

Sarah and Chuck stared at him. "Just like that?" she quizzed.

Walt shook his head slightly. "Not entirely, no. There's a small catch, which I'll be getting to. But . . . on the whole, yes, just like that. From my review of the mission reports, it becomes pretty clear that a key impediment to this team's effectiveness has been Mr. Bartowski's angst, stress, jealousy, or frustration over the status of his relationship with you and, to a lesser degree, similar feelings that you have expressed. I aim to remove that impediment."

Chuck sat speechless. Once again, Sarah took the lead in responding. "But protocols. The Handler-Asset relationship?"

Walt emitted a small grin, as his eye twinkled. "Ah yes. . . the catch. As you are both aware, Handler-Asset relationships are strictly forbidden. So Mr. Bartowski can no longer be an Asset. But then, what is he? Let me ask you, Agent Walker. . . are personal relationships between CIA Agents forbidden? Or relationships between CIA Agents and CIA Analysts?"

Sarah emitted the smallest of smiles, more out of curiosity than joy. "No . . . but they are heavily discouraged. Typically, Agents or Analysts on the same team would be broken up, professionally. The principal fear is that Agents or Analysts would put the safety of loved ones above mission objectives."

Chuck shot Sarah a confused look. "But Bryce?"

Sarah looked towards Walt, then responded professionally, unemotionally. "Bryce and me were, um, a special case. Graham made an exception."

Walt's grin disappeared, and the office-supply expression reemerged. "Quite correct. And, as much as I would like to given the peculiar circumstances at issue here, I'm afraid that I don't have the operational authority to make a similar exception."

Chuck, utterly confused, jumped in. "But you said you would approv. . ."

Walt interjected, facing Chuck. He spoke sharply, precisely. "I know what I said. Notice I chose my words carefully. You cannot remain partners with Agent Walker and become a _CIA_ Agent or Analyst." Walt then turned his head to face Sarah. "Now, let me ask you Agent Walker . . . do any protocols inhibit personal relationships between CIA Agents and military officers?"

"No. Not that I'm aware of." Sarah answered.

Walt's grin returned, and the twinkle in his eye blossomed into a sparkle. "Quite correct, again. No such protocols exist. Thus, we have a potential solution to our dilemma."

Walt reached into his pocket and pulled out a pendent. Two straight, interconnected silver bars. A captain's insignia. He placed the insignia on the desk, and pushed it towards Chuck.

"You want me to join the military?" Chuck asked, dumbstruck, in an uncharacteristically raised voice.

"The Air Force, specifically. General Beckman, as I'm sure you are aware, is not only the Director of the NSA. She is also an Air Force General. That comes with certain perks. Including the authority to issue a direct commission up to the rank of Captain. You recall the training you received at the Farm?"

Chuck nodded his head, then spoke. "Casey mentioned to me that it confused him. That some of it was more like basic training for military recruits."

Walt smiled a little. "The General needed to make sure that you could pass the appropriate tests. There's some overlap between what we do and the military, but some differences as well. . . . One more thing, all this, the training, the offer of a military commission . . . it done on my advice."

Sarah shot him a look. "Your advice?"

Walt's face grew softer. His eyes turned kind, and his smile grew as he dropped his accountant-like approach. "Agent Walker and, for now, Mr. Bartowski . . . do you know what the most important part of my job is?"

Sarah and Chuck answered with silence. Seeing no response, Walt continued:

"It's people management. How do you develop people? How do you motivate them to be their best? You need to push them, yes. But you also need to keep them happy."

Walt turned towards Chuck. He extended his arm and placed his left hand comfortably on Chuck's right palm.

"Frankly, Chuck, I'm ashamed at how our Government has treated you. The the surveillance, the threats . . . On a moral level, it's appalling. But from a practical level, it's also damn stupid. It's a testament to your loyalty and fortitude that you are as productive as you were with all that hanging over your head. Hell, it's amazing that you didn't defect to Fulcrum. That kind of loyalty needs to be rewarded. And, with some convincing, General Beckman agreed. . . . now, I ask both of you once again, do you want to pursue a personal romantic relationship?"

Sarah took a deep breath. "Yes," she said meekly, her words shrouded by defensiveness.

"And, Mr. Bartowski, do you feel similarly?"

"Yes, I mean yeah, I mean. . ." Chuck said, smiling and stumbling with excitement.

Walt smiled back. "Then accept my offer. Oh, there's something else we should discuss . . . General Beckman opined, and I agreed, that a simple direct commission to Captain would be too suspicious. It's done periodically, from time to time, but mostly for doctors and experienced attorneys. We believe it's better that we create a back story for you. . . "

Walt passed a piece of paper across the table. Chuck picked it up and looked stunned. "I've been in the Air Force for seven years?" he asked.

Walt grinned. "Well, not in reality, of course. But, what did Orwell say? He who controls the present controls the past. The basic concept is this: you received a commission as a 2nd Lieutenant right out of Stanford by special application and the completion of OCS, bypassing the usual ROTC process. It's an unusual path to an officer commission. But the timing works. The military made scores of exceptions in the aftermath of 9/11 to get people with backgrounds in computers software and engineering. Anyway, after receiving your commission you joined the Air Force Reserve and were assigned to some computer-related division. Perhaps Information Technology. You were promoted to 1st Lieutenant after about two years of service, and then to Captain about three years after that – a bit behind the normal schedule. Your performance has been average, a bit below. . . your service record reflect that you're just another low-level officer drone. Or, at least, that's the broad scope of what your HR file will say . . . the particulars of your file, you can draft yourself. I hear you are quite good with computers. The redacted, 'double secret probation' files will indicate that you've been seconded to the NSA, and were activated as a full-time officer two years ago."

"Anything else?" Chuck asked, trying to take it all in.

Walt nodded. "Yes, there's something else. You see. . . we'll need to create extensive records for Captain Bartowski. That includes payroll records going back seven years . . . five years of reserve pay, two years of full-time pay. But that, in turn, means that you must have received those payments."

"A signing bonus?" Chuck inquired, rather stupefied.

Walt winked at him. "I'd prefer to think of it as 'cover maintenance.' But think of it however you like. . . the money will be waiting for you in one of the accounts set up a long time ago for such a purpose. If you just say 'yes.'"

"How long?" Chuck inquired.

"How long what?" Walt asked.

"How long would I need to be in the Air Force?"

Walt nodded. "That's a fair question. Here's the deal that I'm willing to extend to you: given us seven years. That's probably all your new Intersect skills are good for anyway."

"Huh?" Chuck and Sarah mumbled.

"Let me explain. . . you may have all sorts of fighting skills in your head, albeit it with buggy programming, but your body is still human. It will age. How many professional athletes remain at the top of their game after their mid-30s? Very few. Your potential usefulness as an Intersect field agent is time-limited by Mother Nature the same way. Give your country seven years, Chuck. After that, you can do what you want. If you and Agent Walker are still together, you'll still be young enough to raise a family."

Sarah bristled, shuddered. _'Seven years from now? A family?'_ she thought, terrified.

Walt continued on. "If you want to go your separate ways then, so be it. Or, if you want to retire from fieldwork then but remain in the game, we can arrange diplomatic covers for you, and potentially for Agent Walker . . . as you know, there are many married couples in the State Department. I can foresee a future for you, Chuck, as a cover IT person. And, for Agent Walker, perhaps a cover as a Political/Economic Officer?"

Sarah shuddered again. _'Marriage? We've been together, officially, for about the length of this conversation. But why am I trying to suppress a smile? Walt and Merry did it. Could Chuck and I do it? No, too soon for that. . ." _

Walt reached into his suit pocket and removed a pair of sun glasses. "One last thing. It's my understanding that the current version of the Intersect came with certain, um, intimate programming, that you and Agent Walker consider distasteful?"

Chuck stammered again, "Well, um, it's not quite. . ."

Walt responded with a playful bark. "Chuck, I already know all about your situation. In fact, your father has succeeded in targeting the programming. These sun glasses contain a limited suppressor program. Put them on. Active the program, by pressing this red button. And Bryce Larkin's, um, skills, will never bother you again."

"Just like that?" Chuck asked.

"No, not just like that." Walt quipped. "It was a very difficult task convincing General Beckman to authorize the removal of the intimate subroutines. She wanted to make sure you were . . . how should I put this, capable?"

Sarah and Chuck both gasped a bit, then sat bewildered. "And?" Chuck entreated.

Walt motioned "relax."

"Don't worry," Walt responded. "Fortunately, we had several hours of footage from your dalliance with a Fulcrum agent last year."

Chuck's features turned bright red, almost like the interior of a watermelon, as Sarah shot him and Walt a look of annoyance.

"I, um, don't know what you mean." Chuck said.

Walt chuckled a bit. "Sure you do . . . does the name Jill Roberts ring a bell? Anyway, before authorizing me to hand you these glasses, General Beckman insisted that we study the footage, together, carefully. So, we did. She was impressed with that thing you did with your thumb, and the chocolate sauce."

Walt took his hand and, using his left thumb, made a crude gesture. "But other portions of the footage she found, um, wanting. . . Sure there was lots of moaning, and thrusting. And cries of 'Chuck Me,' but it wasn't until about the fifteenth viewing of your erotic encounters with Ms. Roberts that she concluded that your skills were sufficiently . . . . adequate."

Chuck and Sarah sat stone-faced in silence; their jaws opened.

"I'm kidding." Walt said. He began pounding his fist on the table, practically bowing over with laughter. "Seriously. Ever hear of spy humor? Take the glasses, no catch. But I expect an answer on the General's offer of a commission within three days."

"And if I say no?" Chuck asked.

Walt's eye brows rose. "We won't cross that bridge when we don't come to it.'"

Chuck shot Walt a perplexed look, then picked up the glasses. Almost immediately thereafter, Sarah grabbed his hand. She bit her lip, flashed him with a hungry, devilish grin, and escorted him up Castle's steps.

Walt waited until the door closed behind them, then stared at his watch until an additional three minutes passed. Satisfied that neither of them was coming back, he patched General Beckman in on a video conference. Soon, her bright grin shot forth from Castle's monitors.

"Report. Did they buy it?" The General asked.

"Hook, line, and sinker." Walt answered.

The General smiled. "So when do we drop the hammer?"

Walt took his glasses off. He cleaned them, then placed the tip of the left ear piece in his mouth, as he leaned back in his chair. "Patience, young Jedi. General, may I ask you: what do you need to set a honeytrap?

The General looked a little confused. "Well, honey . . . of course."

Walt's eyes peaked up. His features turned deathly serious, and his voice dropped.

"Agent Walker and Mr. Bartowski are bees, General. Their happiness will be the nectar of their own enslavement."

* * *

A/N: So we meet the fourth member of the group. Much like Abby in my previous story was, from a certain point of view, a functional replacement for Sarah, Walt is a functional replacement for Shaw - i.e., the team leader, in some respects a mentor. Yet, just as Abby wasn't Sarah, he's clearly not Shaw. Different personality. Different motives. And a very different arc. An original character. The problem with using stock characters from cannon is the predictability. Walt has no history, so his arc can go anywhere.

On a somewhat different note, this chapter concludes Act I of this story. The rest of the story can go a few ways. There is a big twist in the middle, and a big twist at the end. But how long to get to the middle & end depends, in part, on you? Would you like a longer story (which may permit more gradual character development), or one that's shorter and tighter? Now, I'm not saying I can write a super long story . . . I'd need plots for "spy stories" to fill it . . . but I could at least try. Thoughts? How many chapters do people want, knowing that the middle and ending will basically stay the same?

Also, if someone could post to the Facebook group, that would be great!


	6. Chuck v the Commission

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

Chuck and Sarah sat quietly on her hotel room bed. Her stuff was roughly 2/3rds packed. Chuck might have been moving in with Casey, but she was moving closer to the team. She'd be only two blocks away from their Ecco Park apartment complex. They had a lot to talk about.

Sarah placed her left hand inside his. "So, the choice."

Chuck looked at her with a mix of hope and despondence. "Not much of a choice. Stay an Asset. Or get paid. Get respect. Get you."

Sarah took her right arm and gently massaged his back. "You have respect. From me. From Casey. Even from Walt and Beckman. Their offer proves it. And you have me. . . in almost every way that counts."

"You know what I mean." Chuck said.

"I do," she answered, nodding softly. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

They sat in silence, hands intermingled, for the next four minutes. Eventually, Sarah broke the quiet. "Don't you think you should at least ask Casey first? Get his opinion? He's an officer. Hell, he'll be _your _superior officer."

Chuck raised his hands to signal ambivalence. "Eh, Marines . . . Air Force . . . Not a direct line of command."

"Chuck," Sarah said, pressing.

"No, I'm not going to ask him. I've spent too much time thinking, pondering. Not enough time doing. I've made up my mind. I'm doing this. There's not really another option."

"Ok," Sarah answered.

The silence resumed. It was a comfortable silence, a peaceful one. They sat there, contemplating the past, dreaming of the future. The near-future.

After another few minutes, Sarah looked up at Chuck and smiled. "Chuck . . . If we have Beckman's ok, Walt's ok . . . can we start now?"

"You mean?"

Sarah's smile turned wicked. "Mmmph. . . I've lived like a nun for over two years. I don't want to wait any longer."

She reached over and kissed him full on the lips. Slow at first, then quickly passionate. Within less than a minute, her hands were tussling with his shirt, taking it off. Then his slacks. Chuck reciprocated, removing her top. They fell madly into the bed, tearing into one another. Just then, Chuck's face flushed, and his eyes rolled into the back of his scalp, and his expression turned deadly stoic.

Sarah backed off, worried. "Chuck, did you flash, again?"

Chuck's face turned beet red. He stammered. "No, um, I, um . . . finished," he said, pointing down towards his slacks. A telltale small wet spot was emerging.

Sarah emitted a small gasp, and covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh. But we didn't. . . I mean, not yet."

Chuck rustled with his own hair, embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess I got a little overexcited. Finally getting to be with your dream girl after 2+ years of waiting will do that."

Sarah pondered the situation for a bit. Then her mouth and eyes turned naughty. She leaned over, brushed Chuck's earlobe with her tongue, and whispered. "It's alright. . . There's a solution for that."

"There is?" Chuck quizzed.

Sarah circled his ear with her tongue, then responded. "Mmmph. . . We just need to wait another thirty minutes or so. He'll be less sensitive then. . . what's 30 minutes after more than two years?"

She gave Chuck's ear a soft bite, then turned off the night light by her bed.

* * *

_The Next Morning_

Walt greeted them at the bottom of Castle steps. He extended his hand, and gave each of them a firm handshake. "Chuck, Sarah . . . good to see you. Have you made your decision?"

Chuck answered affirmatively, confidently. "Yes, I'm doing it. . . But I do have a question."

"Ask away," Walt offered.

"If this was the game plan all along, why am I still moving in with Casey?"

Walt nodded, and escorted the couple over to the conference desk, and extended chairs for them to sit on. Then, pulling out a chair for himself, Walt sat down, took off his glasses and began playing with the earpiece.

"I thought this might come up." Walt stated, matter-of-factly. He flashed the couple his "charm" smile, let his left eye twinkle a bit, and explained: "As I mentioned earlier, I'm in the people management business. I approved the two of you having a personal relationship because, from a people management perspective, I thought it was best for the team. I'd veto any 'alternative' living arrangements for the same reason."

"I don't understand," Chuck proffered.

Walt put his glasses on the desk, and leaned his chair back slightly. "There's an old saying. . . travel at impulse before you attempt warp speed. That applies to relationships more than anything. Sure, you two might care about each other, enjoy fornicating with each other. . . whatever. But what do you two really know about being in a relationship with each other? Hell, what do the two of you know about being in a relationship at all? Chuck, it's been what. . . . seven _years _for you? And Agent Walker . . . from your file, I don't think you've ever been in a _genuinely committed_ relationship. Before you both go from 0 to 60 and crash into a brick wall, taking the team down with you, maybe you should try driving in the slow lane for awhile? Of course, what do I know? Oh, that's right. . . I've been married longer than either of you has been alive."

"I see your point," Sarah said.

Walt stared kindly into her eyes, then sent Chuck a reassuring glance. "There's more. . . living _together _is tough. Really tough. Everything might be exciting to you now. But give it six months. When the banality of life sets in. My first year with Merry . . . the fights we had. Stupid stuff. Leaving socks around the house. Finishing the last Pepsi in the fridge. You name it, we fought over it. Of course, we got over it. . . . And we had it easy, in some respects. We had time apart. When I was on missions. You two will be together all the time – including all-day at work. I can't afford to have this team struggle because the two of you are driving each other bat-shit insane. So I'm giving you a gift. The gift of personal space. Enjoy it. "

Walt paused for a bit, then turned towards Chuck. "Now, are you prepared to take the Oath?"

"The Oath?" Chuck asked.

Walt nodded. "The Oath of a military officer. I'm technically CIA but, for purposes of this mission, General Beckman has delegated her authority to me . . . her orders effectively commissioned me as an honorary full-bird Colonel, outranking even Lt. Col. Casey. So I can give you the oath right here."

"Now?" Chuck asked.

Walt smiled at him, and placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "There's no time like the present." Walt stood up, walked towards a filing cabinet, and opened a drawer. "Based on your personnel file, I presume that you'd prefer a Bible. Is the King James Version sufficient? Of course, if you prefer, I have a Tanakh, a Koran, and a Bhagavad Gita in here somewhere."

"Huh?" Chuck asked, befuddled.

"To swear on, Chuck." Walt answered.

"Oh, a Bible would be fine." Chuck replied. Walt placed King James Version on the conference desk and slid it to Chuck.

"Left hand on the book, right hand raised." Walt instructed. "Now, repeat after me. . . . In Brightest Day, In Blackest Night. . ."

Chuck responded methodically, "In Brightest Day, in Blackest Night."

Walt continued, "No evil shall escape my sight."

Chuck parroted, "No evil shall escape my sight."

Walt started cracking up. Noticing his boss' reaction, Chuck realized what he had just said and got the _Green Lantern_ reference.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. . . . I told you I was a nerd," Walt said, composing himself. "I've never sworn anyone in before. Always wanted to do that. Anyway, will you protect the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic, yadda yadda yadda?"

"I will." Chuck answered.

Walt extended his hand. "Well then, congratulations . . . Chuck, you're not an Asset anymore. it's a pleasure to meet you Captain Bartowski."

Chuck went to shake Walt's hand, but Walt unexpectedly wrapped him into a giant bear hug.

* * *

_One Month Later_

Agent Walker, walked down Castle's steps, answering Walt's unexpected Sunday morning summons. It had been a productive month for the team. Even with the Intersect malfunctioning, the team worked together seamlessly to take down a child-trafficking ring and bust a counterfeiting operation. And Walt had begun assigning Chuck to review mission briefing for teams spread around the globe, enabling him to flash and offer insight which benefited CIA and military operations far-and-wide. As for her relationship with Chuck, it had been pure bliss. She'd never been happier. And, from what Ellie had told her, Chuck had never been happier either. Then the summons, via automatically-disappearing text message.

"Meet me at Castle, 6:45 a.m., Sunday. Come alone, tell no one – W."

She crept down the steps, and noticed Walt standing, perched over the conference table. He was reviewing a file, while sipping from a large mug of coffee.

"Agent Walker, thank you for coming." Walt stated. His friendly, charming tone was gone. This Walt was all business.

"Certainly, sir. Can I ask why you wanted me to meet here, this early?"

Walt took a seat. "What I have to say is for your ears only, do you understand."

"Yes, sir," she answered, robotically.

Walt poured a mug of coffee and offered it to her. Sarah waved it off.

"Good. I wanted to check in on the status of your relationship with the Asset."

Startled, Sarah felt her skin tingle. "Asset? He's not an Asset anymore. There's no protocol violation. . ."

"Incorrect. He's an Asset until I and General Beckman say otherwise." Walt responded.

Sarah corrected him. "You literally said, one month ago, 'Chuck, you're not an Asset anymore.'"

Walt stared her down. His normally friendly eyes turned to ice. "I know what I said. I said what Chuck needed to hear. Now I'm telling you what you need to hear. The truth is, the NSA and CIA haven't treated him very well. We needed to fix that. He deserved to be paid properly. He deserved to have a legitimate job title on his resume that will either give him a path to permanent government service, or that he can take to future employers, once his service here is through. And, from what I've observed, he'd be a damn good intelligence analyst even without the Intersect."

Walt paused. His face, still serious, showed him deep in thought as he contemplated phrasing the next few sentences. "But more than for his sake, we needed to fix Captain Bartowski's situation for our own sake. I need him loyal, happy, and productive - not bitter, resentful, terrified, and hating the United States Government. As I said one month ago, in perfect truth, that's how you wind up with failures, burnouts, and traitors - not good spies." Walt explained, then paused again.

He concluded: "Loyal, happy, and productive. That's where you came in Sarah. That's why I approved your relationship."

"You WANTED me to sleep with him?" Sarah grilled, expressing shock. "As what, a means of controlling him?"

Walt shook his head. "You misunderstand me. You're an Agent, and a colleague. You're not a prostitute, and I'm not treating you like one. Having reviewed this team's history, it was clear that we are at our weakest when Chuck or yourself was moping over how the two of you couldn't t be together. So, I gave you my blessing, and arranged for Chuck to get a commission that would remove the protocol violation. But, more than that, from reviewing the files, it's clear that . . . before your recent entanglements, Chuck never fully_ listened_ to you. He never _fully_ trusted you. He didn't entirely believe that you weren't just _manipulating_ him, _handling_ him. So I gave the two of you a month to bang each other's hearts out. To get close. To drop all the barriers that kept you apart. Now it's time to take advantage of that."

"I don't understand." Sarah said, a nervous tension growing inside her.

Walt pushed the file he was reading over to Sarah. "Chuck may have a fancy title, and a military commission, but you are still his Handler, and he is still your Asset. Treat him like one. Your job, _Agent Walker_, is to ensure that Chuck remains loyal, happy, and productive. And I'm going to add one more word here: obedient. When you tell him to stay in the car, he needs to stay in the damn car. And when you tell him to do something distasteful, he needs to comply, his own moral code be damned. I'm betting that – now that the barriers between the two of you have fallen – you have the means to make him happier, more productive, more loyal, and more obedient. He'll do things for his _girlfriend_, his _lover_, that he never would have done for Agent Walker. Like take on the assignment I just handed you."

Sarah picked up the file and reviewed it. Her stomach turned inside out as she read. She felt disgust.

"He won't do it. Do this. He's too good a person," she responded. But her tone signaled something less than full confidence.

"Incorrect," Walt responded. "He _wouldn't_ have done this. Not if Agent Walker asked him. But if you ask him now? If you support him? If you tell him that everything will be all right, that he'll remain a good person? That this is all for the greater good? Well, he's now so far gone that he'll do anything you tell him to. Particularly when he knows that the cost of his continued obstinance will mean the end of that relationship, his imprisonment, and your immediate reassignment."

"Imprisonment?" Sarah grilled. She felt sick, used, manipulated. And she feared for Chuck.

Walt faced her down. His eyes turned the color of stone gray. "Chuck is now a military officer. Per my special assignment, my orders are the General's orders. Nothing I'm asking him to do is illegal. Immoral, perhaps. But not illegal. If he disobeys my orders, I'll have him court-martialed. Before his commission, we could threaten to throw him into a hole . . . but the truth is, we probably couldn't keep him there. Not forever. He's still an American citizen, with rights. But an Air Force Captain who disobeys the orders of a General? Hell, we can send him to a secret military tribunal and do pretty much whatever we want with him."

Sarah sensed the urge to vomit. "You played me, played us."

Walt grinned. "You're damn right I did. And if you weren't thinking with your heart, or with _your snatch_, you would have realized it. Look on the bright side. A lot of what I said is true. Both for him, and for you. I said give us seven years, and I meant it. I said that, when this is all over, I could arrange a soft-landing diplomatic cover position, and I meant it. But, for _now_, Chuck remains the greatest intelligence Asset the world has ever seen. He needs to be handled, particularly given his slipshod training. And who better to do so than the girl he's head-over heels in love with?"

"I won't do it. I'll resign." Sarah said, defiantly.

Walt shook his head and laughed. "No, you won't. Because if you do, I'll bring some other agent in to replace you. And she won't protect him the way you do. She won't feel the _need _to protect him the way you do. And he'll be dead within three months. For his safety, you'll stay. And for his happiness, you won't breathe a word of this conversation to anyone. . . Do you understand?"

Sarah looked at Walt intently. "You really don't have a soul, do you?"

Walt laughed again. "Agent Walker, let me tell you a story. When I was a young agent oh, close to 35 years ago. I was stationed in Honduras. We were studying Communist insurgents who were planning attacks into Nicaragua. One day, I get a call at my apartment – a personal line. It's a drug cartel on the phone. They say that they have my cousin Fernandito, and that they'll kill him if I don't pay a ransom."

Walt looked up at the ceiling, almost wistfully. He smiled and continued his story. "Now, the funny thing is, of course, that I don't have a cousin Fernandito. The cartel had called the wrong number. So I try to explain this to the cartel, but my Spanish is so broken that they don't understand me. Or don't believe me. Whatever. Anyway, they keep threatening to torture him, chop off body parts, the whole works. . . while I keep trying to explain that they had the wrong number. Eventually, I hear a lot of screaming in the background, so I hang up the phone. Then I went and ate a bag of chips."

Walt started laughing hysterically. "Do you understand the meaning of this story, Agent Walker?"

Sarah didn't answer, but her stunned silence said everything.

Walt tried to stop laughing, unsuccessfully, as he continued. "The meaning is that I don't give a damn about you, or Chuck, just like I didn't give a damn about poor Fernandito. I'll give more thought to choosing a brand of table salt. Maybe Morton's. . . What I care about is the mission, and accomplishing that. Taking down enemies of the Republic, crushing the Ring, and preserving the safety of the American people. Chuck's happiness will make him more productive, so I want that. Your relationship with Chuck advances his happiness and will make him more loyal, so I want that too. And if you two play your little part in this play, you'll both have a bright future. But don't ever confuse goals with motives. Understand?"

"What about the surveillance?" Sarah asked. As she spoke, she didn't know why her thoughts even turned to that. She contemplated that, perhaps, the reality of the situation hadn't hit her yet.

Walt, finally composed, answered. "It will remain, but more low-key. Chuck can't find out about it, or everything we're trying to accomplish here goes kaput. What do you think the ear exam was all about?"

"You mean the big block of ear wax?" Sarah asked.

Walt chuckled. "Oh yeah, I heard about that. No, that was real. That was gross. But that was coincidental. The point of the exam was to place on of these micro-dot bugs, right where he hears. Ingenuous little device. Virtually undetectable when 'off,' and we can it off remotely from here." Walt pulled a little dot from his pocket and showed it to her. "Suffice it to say, we'll know where he is, and what he's saying, at all times. For his protection, of course."

With that, Walt got up, and calmly walked away. He put on a dark gray porkpie hat, which was hanging on a rack near Castle's steps. "Have a nice Sunday, Agent Walker. Enjoy the time with your boyfriend. We'll have a mission briefing at 2 p.m. on Tuesday. . . based off of the file I handed you."

Sarah just sat there, staring at a wall, for the next thirty minutes.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Should this story continue? Reviews/feedback/ideas are much appreciated! Also, can someone post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group? Many thanks!


	7. Chuck and Sarah v The Honeytrap

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

_Previously in Chuck v. The End of History_

_Walt: "General, may I ask you: what do you need to set a honeytrap?_

_General Beckman: "Well, honey . . . of course."_

_Walt: "Agent Walker and Mr. Bartowski are bees, General. Their happiness will be the nectar of their own enslavement."_

* * *

Sarah sat on her bed, her bloodshot eyes barely holding back tears. A honeytrap, she thought. That's what she was. But how? She had never planned to honeytrap Chuck. Hell, she actively resisted it, even going so far as to shoot down Langstron Graham's less than subtle "suggestion" that she seduce him. Yet here she was, a _honeytrap_. And she did it without orders. Without even a "suggestion." She had honeytrapped herself. She had let Chuck honeytrap her. No, that wasn't right. They had honeytrapped each other.

How had she let it happen? Why did she let Walt play her? Out-spy her? The conman's daughter, conned? She knew the answer. She hated the answer. _Because she loved him_. She hadn't told him. She couldn't tell him, especially now. But that didn't stop her from loving him. And her love blinded her. Now here she was. And she didn't see a way out of it.

She could tell him, sure. Walt's surveillance might pick up audio, but she could write Chuck a note. But what good would telling him do? _It would give him honesty_, she thought. She owed him honesty. Yet at what cost? He's not a spy. He can't suppress his emotions. Heck, he wears them on his sleeve. If she tells him, he mopes. Or worse, he confronts Walt, confronts Beckman. Even if he keeps quiet, his happiness, his smile, his zest for life . . . they'll all be gone. They'll be dust. And Walt will know. Beckman will know. Then what? Most likely, she'll get reassigned or fired. Then Chuck will get a new handler. And the new handler will get him killed. Can't risk that. Honesty is worth a lot. But it's not worth his life. So telling him, it's not an option.

Could they run? No, not really an option either. She's good. But Walt's better. He proved it. He out-spied her. Besides, the entire might of the United States government against a rogue agent or asset? They might survive a few weeks, maybe a few months. And even if they could pull it off, at what cost? Taking Chuck away from his family, from Ellie? Making it so that he never sees anyone he cares about again? No, that's not an option either. He'll either be dead from bullets or dead inside. Of course, if she followed Walt's plan, she'd risk him rotting from the inside.

She briefly thought of killing Walt. She could make it look like an accident. Or, even better, a shooting in the line-of-duty. She quickly dismissed the thought. Not for moral reasons. For practical ones. It wouldn't work. Even if she put Walt down, Beckman would just send a new flunky with the same mission. The same orders.

So what's left? Cooperate with Walt. Be a good little honeytrap. It was her best option. It was her only real option. For now. Until she can find a way out of it. Until then, she'll need to trust in Chuck. His inherent goodness. His creativity. Maybe, no matter the moral challenge, he'll find another way. A better path. As he might say, a "golden path." No, wait. . . not the "golden path." Didn't that lead to a 1,000 year dictatorship by a giant worm? And how the hell did she even know that? Know Dune? Because of Chuck. Because he had infiltrated her. Infected her. Honeytrapped her. And she loved every minute of it.

She thought back to Walt. How he had fooled her, fooled Chuck. Merry? The normalish house in the suburbs? The pictures of growing children on the wall? Was it all just an act, a mirage? Was Merry even real, or just a player in Walt's charade? The charade that she could have it all, that Chuck could have it all? No, she dismissed that thought too. She had run the requisite checks, did her homework. Merry was real. Walt's children were real. The soulless bastard did have a family, raise a family. How did he do it? She realized the answer, then hatred herself for the realization. He compartmentalized. Just like she did as an assassin, as a honeytrap. _Before this honeytrap._ There were marks, there were colleagues, and – to Walt anyway – there was family. And a different code of conduct covered each. The same person could be a loving parent, a dutiful spouse, and a total merciless ass. She just thought that Chuck and her were colleagues to Walt, not marks. She was wrong. Oh so very wrong.

She looked at the clock. 6:15 p.m. She was due over at Ellie's for dinner in ten minutes. Time to cheer up. Play up the cover of the happy girlfriend. Ugh, she thought despondently. Back to a cover. She thought they were past this. They _were _past this. But now, for her sake . . . for his sake . . . she had to wear a fake smile and laugh at petty conversation as if nothing was wrong. For once, she wished that Chuck wasn't so attentive, so caring. Then she wouldn't have to act so hard.

She loved him. So she needed to deceive him. To handle him. To keep him safe. To keep him alive. But at what cost? Their relationship? His love for her? His soul? Her soul? Did she still have a soul?

She shuddered. Then she went into the bathroom, threw cold water on her face, and began putting on her emotional makeup. Dinner was soon. And Chuck was counting on her.

* * *

Dinner at Ellie's passed chillingly for Sarah. She fixated herself on Chuck's happy, contented face. She smiled brightly for Ellie and Devon. She thought she could handle it. Then came Ellie's question. And Chuck's answer.

"Chuck, I'm just so happy to see you so happy," Ellie said, giddily. "You always said things between you and Sarah were complicated. But ever since you got back from your trip, it's like a burden's been lifted. What happened?"

"I dunno. I guess you could say things got uncomplicated," he said, while grasping Sarah tenderly and throwing his arm around her shoulders. A simple quip. An affectionate gesture. A crushing blow. Sarah choked on her wine as he said it. Then she poured herself another deep glass. Part of her thought that Tuesday couldn't come soon enough. At least then, she would only need to keep one secret, one _big secret_, not two. But then she gazed again at his smiling, happy face. And she cherished those last few days, few hours, of his unencumbered happiness.

* * *

Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.

"Downstairs, mission." Casey said, approaching Chuck with a friendly pat on this shoulder. He had joined the new cover company, Hubbard Cybersecurity, just two weeks before. His cover was, supposedly, testing the physical security systems of clients while Chuck and Walt handled the cybersecurity, and Sarah took care of the back-office stuff. Of course, it was all a front. The "clients" mostly didn't exist. And the "engagements" largely consisted of missions. All the better from Casey's perspective. No more damn Buy Morans or idiotic customers.

Together, Casey and Chuck walked downstairs, below the offices of Hubbard Cybersecurity to the new Castle. Sarah was already seated at the desk. Walt was upright, in front of a large monitor.

"Chuck, Casey, thank you for coming." Walt said. "The target is this woman, Gracia Benveniste." Walt commented. On the screen appeared the image of a green and purple-haired, slightly chubby woman in her late-20s, wearing black lipstick. Her face was attractive enough, some might say cute. Beneath the surface, and the excess weight, one could decipher the image of a woman who had been very attractive once, before life wore her down prematurely.

"She doesn't look like our usual bad guy, what did she do?" Chuck asked.

"Nothing. She's a civilian. As far as we can tell, she's a complete innocent." Walt answered.

"So why are we interested in her?" Chuck inquired.

Walt responded in a business-like tone. "We have no interest in her. Our objective is her brother, Joseph. We have reason to believe that Joseph serves as something like a modern-day Meyer Lansky to a number of disreputable and criminal organizations, including the Ring. Regarding the Ring, we believe that he helps funnel money and assets through a mix of shell companies and legitimate businesses, enabling them to finance their operations. But we have no proof."

"Why is a CIA/NSA black ops team interested in the money-man? Wouldn't the FBI or IRS have jurisdiction here?" Casey interjected.

Walt nodded, conceding the point. "Usually, yes. But our mandate covers everything Ring-related. If we take down Joseph's operations, and trace where the Ring's money is, we can deal a significant blow to its operational capabilities."

"So you want me to what, get close to Gracia in the hopes of finding dirt on her brother?" Chuck asked.

Walt flashed him a small smile. "Not quite. Consider this your long-term seduction mission. Or, at least, your first _official_ one." Walt shot subtle glare to both Sarah and Casey, who grimaced. Walt then continued: "We need to you to insinuate yourself into her life, gain her trust, and use that trust to get access to both her brother and their home."

"You want me to sleep with this woman?" Chuck asked, incredulously.

"I want you to develop her as an Asset, Chuck. I want you to use her get _close _to her brother, to gain information on the Ring's finances. I don't care how you accomplish that objective. If bedding Gracia furthers the mission, then yes, so be it." Walt answered, in a calming tone.

Casey chuckled. "In order words, moron . . . if the mission calls for it, just lie back, spread your legs, and think of England. I hear the Queen was quite a looker back in the day."

Chuck shot an embarrassed, concerned look at Walt, then at Sarah, then stared down at his own shoes, deep in thought. "Why me? I'm hardly Roan Montgomery. Surely there's someone better suited."

Walt slid a report across the desk to Chuck. "Read her file. Your psych profile is almost a perfect match. Tell me if any of this sounds familiar. Gracia's mother died when she was six. Her father died when she was 14. Since then, she was raised by her older brother, Joseph. She excelled in school, and attended MIT where she majored in computer science. A straight A student for the first three years, her grades mysteriously collapsed at the beginning of her senior year, causing her to flunk out. She moved back home, where she lives with her much more successful elder sibling – Joseph - while working a dead-end job at a comic book store. According to her social media presence, her major hobbies consist of reading science fiction, obsessing over comic books, and playing video games. The only, steadying influence in her life is her brother. She has few friends, and hasn't been on a date in over a year."

Chuck gasped. "My god, she's me. Or, at least, a shorter, female me from two years ago."

Walt unconsciously raised his left eyebrow. "Precisely. You won't need Roan Montgomery's skillset on this mission. Gracia is tailor-made to be seduced by Charles Levi."

"Levi?" Chuck asked.

Walt explained. "Although non-religious, Gracia and her brother were raised Jewish. All of her previous relationships have been with Jewish men. We believe your mission will have a greater chance of success if your cover identity was Jewish too."

Chuck felt his stomach grow uneasy. "I'm not good at lying. I've never had to fake something like this before. I'm not sure if I'm cut out for it. It's not me."

Walt twinkled his eye towards Chuck. "Don't worry. You look the part. No one's going to be asking you to recite your Bar Mitzvah portion. You just need to play the role of being a nice, cute Jewish boy. But that does pose a problem. How should I put this. . . your medical records were incomplete. We don't know if you are, um, properly equipped to play a Jewish man."

Chuck looked perplexed. "I'm a little confused. When I said it wasn't me, I meant the seduction, the _using _of a person, not the Jewish thing."

Casey snarled. "He's asking about your Polish sausage, moron. That's what he wants to know if you're 'cut out' for."

"Thanks for the imagery, Lt. Col. Casey," Walt stated, emphasizing the _Lt._ in _Lt. Col_.

Chuck stammered a bit. "Um, uncut. Is that going be a problem?"

Casey cackled. "Not a problem at all, moron. We'll just have to get you fixed."

"Lovely," Chuck responded. "But it doesn't change anything. I'm not good at lying . . . this isn't what I'm good at."

Walt smiled at him. "You're better than you think. You duped your family, best friend, and co-workers for two years. I'm confident that you can handle a retail clerk at a comic book store."

Sarah jumped in. "I think what Chuck's getting at is that, he's never had to betray someone's trust like this. . . especially a civilian. He's not sure he's ready for that part of the mission."

Chuck threw his hands up in the air. "Yes, thank you Sarah."

Walt turned towards Sarah. "And Agent Walker, what is your assessment? Can Cpt. Bartowski handle this mission?"

Sarah paused. She glanced at Chuck. He felt two intense, pensive looks directed straight at her. One from Chuck. The other from Walt. "I think it's part of being a spy. And I think that there's very little Chuck can't do, even without the Intersect working right. With our support, we can help him through this. Make him understand what's at stake. Why we do, what we do."

Walt probed her. "Such as?"

Sarah turned towards Chuck again. She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed. "Such as what will happen if we don't act. Gracia might be a clerk at a comic book store. But living in close proximity to that life . . . she has a target on her back. No matter how much her brother cares about her, she's always one bad business deal away from being kidnapped or worse. Getting her involved, making her an Asset, it's risky to her, yes. But she's at risk no matter what we do. In terms of the seduction, the lying . . . the Ring hurts a lot of people. We won't meet them. We don't know their names or their faces. But if we can lie to one person to save a dozen lives, don't we need to act?"

Chuck looked at her skeptically, almost dumbfounded. "Sarah? How can you be ok with this? Putting aside the lying, the deception, it's another woman . . . and you heard Walt's orders."

Sarah blinked a bit, gathered her thoughts, and tenderly grabbed his hand. Noticing the PDA, Casey grunted in disgust. Sarah then swallowed another growing lump in her throat. "Sweetie, of course I don't like the thought of you _being_ with someone else. But it's not cheating, it's not a betrayal . . . not to me. It's like acting . . . but instead of making a movie, we're saving lives."

Hearing her explanation, Casey glared in disbelief.

"Casey?" Chuck said, almost pleading, his face expressing both increasing confusion and a hint of disappointment.

Casey looked at him seriously. "You wanted to be a spy kid. So be a spy."

"I didn't," Chuck muttered under his breath.

Walt shook his head, displaying irritation at his team. He continued with the briefing. "Now that the day time soap crap is over, can we get on with the briefing? The Benvenistes live in San Diego, so we'll set up shop there. Casey will be living with Chuck, posing as his brother John. Sarah will be John's cover girlfriend . . . your role, Sarah, is strictly to provide advice, surveillance, and backup. We can't have a Blond Aryan Goddess interfering with Chuck's seduction efforts. Casey will take on principal protection duties. Chuck, we'll schedule your surgery for tomorrow and give you a week to recover. You'll decamp for San Diego a week from Thursday. A crew is already on-site preparing the apartment. With that, dismissed."

Walt, Chuck, and Sarah got up to leave. Seeing this, and replaying the briefing in his mind, Casey snarled. "Walker, a word . . . in private."

"It's ok, I'll catch up," Sarah said to Chuck, kissing him on the cheek. Then she went to take a walk with Casey towards Castle's holding pens.

Once they were safely out-of-earshot, Casey barked at her. "Walker, what's with that line of bullshit you just fed the kid in there. You know his heart is too big for this seduction crap. Particularly when it's an innocent. And I've seen you when he's with other people. . . there's no way in hell that you're fine with this."

Sarah fidgeted, and blinked her eyes. "What do you want me to say, Casey?"

Casey studied her. "Walt. He's got something on you, or on Chuck, doesn't he? That's why you're doing this."

"I don't know what you mean," Sarah responded, unconvincingly feigning ignorance.

Casey caught her tone of voice, and heard what she left unsaid. "Whatever it is, just make sure it's worth it."

"We have to protect him Casey," Sarah answered, ambiguously.

* * *

That evening

Chuck paced in his apartment. Well, his bedroom. But Casey's apartment. He fidgeted with his phone. He thought of calling Sarah and talking the day's events through with her. He even pulled her name up from the contacts list to call. But her reaction had left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd talk to her about it. But not yet. Just then, he noticed the name right about "Sarah" on the contacts list: "Roan." He pressed send, and the phone began ringing.

Roan's groggy, distracted voice answered. "Hello."

"Roan, it's Chuck. Am I catching you at a bad time?"

Roan stretched out on his couch, phone in hand. He looked down at the puff of brownish-auburn hair with gray streaks bobbing up and down between his legs. "I'm just cleaning my pipes. I can talk."

Chuck spoke cautiously, tentatively. "Do you know an agent named Walter Hubbard?"

Chuck heard something that sounded like either heavy breath or light static for a few seconds. Then Roan answered. "I know him. He's a bastard. Is he who Beckman assigned to your team?"

"Yes," Chuck answered.

Roan contemplated his next few words. "Believe him, Chuck. What he says. But don't trust him. Do you understand?"

"I think so . . .," Chuck responded, "there's something else . . . he asked me to do something, with a woman, that I'm not comfortable with. And Sarah, she acted like she didn't understand, or didn't care."

Chuck thought he heard a squeal, then a thud. A few seconds later, Roan replied. "Sorry, I dropped the phone. Chuck, in this job, we sometimes need to do things that are distasteful. But remember what I told you. . . keep your humanity. Remember the human being that's your target. And find a way to minimize the l damage. To her. And to yourself. If you do those things, then you'll be adding some good to the world. As for Sarah, she's a spy Chuck . . . but that woman committed treason for you. If she didn't take your side, she has her reasons. I just hope they are good ones."

"Thanks. Good night, Roan."

"Good night, Charles."

Chuck hung up the phone. As he prepared for bed, he felt strangely if slightly comforted.

* * *

Four Days Later

Ellie and Devon sat at their dining room table, going through a pile of mail.

"Ugh. . . accidentally opened one for Chuck," Ellie said, "we're still getting his mail."

"Anything interesting?" Devon asked.

"Devon! It's Chuck's mail, and it's post-operation instructions, care instructions . . . from a Dr. Brisman . . . for a circumcision? Chuck got circumcised?"

Devon stared at his wife curiously. "Mazel tov?"

Ellie turned skeptically towards her husband, probing him visually with her eyes. She sensed that there was something he wasn't telling her. But she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

* * *

A/N 1: Fun facts. Walt is based on a real person. Or, more accurately, a composite of roughly three real people. The Fernandito story from the last chapter is based on a real story that was told to me.

A/N 2: The feedback from the last chapter was, um, mixed. Seems like some people were upset with the path I'm taking these characters down. That's ok. If people want to read a sunny story where Chuck and Sarah face no real obstacles, there are plenty of great fics out there. That's just not this story. One of the big problems with Season 3 was extending the WT/WT far past its expiration date. My solution to get past WT/WT while maintaining tension and drama is to set up a scenario where "they did, but now they are even more screwed." It's not angst for angst-sake, but rather a means of growing the characters. And unlike canon, where Sarah and Chuck both act stupidly and and out-of-character, they are, for now, simply trapped in a bad situation. The question is: how can they overcome it?

A/N 3: There was also a very insightful comment from Rob M which noted, correctly, that I'm probably better at writing dark, serious stuff than silly stuff. The point is well taken. But I'm trying to at least somewhat maintain the tenor of the show, which balanced drama and romance with comedy. So, despite my limitations, I'm going to keep trying to throw in lighter moments.

A/N 4: For those who haven't guessed, what's coming up is an extremely loose adaptation of both the Manoosh and Hannah stories. I would ideally have liked to do the stories separately, to show a slow descent into moral murkiness, but time-constraints required certain adjustments. The names of the characters are a clue. "Gracia," in Spanish, means "grace." "Hannah" has the exact same meaning in Hebrew. And, at times, the names were used interchangeably. The famous 16th century banker, Dona Gracia Mendes Benveniste Nasi, was "Gracia" in certain circles and "Hannah" in others (and, I suppose, Beatrice in still other circles). Similarly, the name of the Carthaginian General Hannibal was, in reality, "HannahBaal" in Punic (_i.e._, "Baal is Gracious"), a language which is a close relative of Hebrew.

Also, apologies for the erratic posting schedule. There's a ton on my plate so, at times, I may go a few weeks without an update. But I've got the entire basic plot outlined, so I know where it's going. And there's a major twist coming up in roughly five chapters. Can anyone guess what it is?

Lastly, if someone could post to the FanFiction Facebook group, that would be appreciated. And your comments, reviews, and feedback are always welcome - even if they are critical!


	8. Chuck vs Gracia Part 1

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

Dinner at Ellie's the night before the team's departure passed mostly quietly. But an anxious, unsettled tension filled the air.

Ellie broke a slightly uncomfortable silence. "So. Tomorrow. . . San Diego. And you're going to be gone for a month?"

Chuck swallowed a thick spoonful of mushroom barley soup. "We're not sure," he answered, as Sarah grasped his hand.

Ellie pressed, while gnawing on a carrot. "How can you not be sure?"

Chuck attempted to explain. "This is our first big engagement. I mean, it's for Comic Con. The cybersecurity issues are immense. Ticketing, ad space . . . you wouldn't believe the kinds of scams that we're trying to prevent."

"I see," Ellie answered. Her eyes squirmed as she looked at her brother intensely, trying to detect any deception. As she did, she noticed Chuck's eyes duck to the floor. She decided to drop the ball. "So . . . you got circumcised."

Chuck gagged and reflexively spit out the soup in his mouth. "Um, how. . ."

"Ellie!" Devon called out.

Ellie ignored her husband, as her eyes focused deeper on her brother. "Your doctor, Dr. Brisman, he sent post-care instructions here. You put down the wrong address again."

"Oh," Chuck responded, sheepishly.

"I'm not mad," Ellie responded, curtly. "It's just, I thought we had the kind of relationship where you would come to me with these kinds of decisions. We used to."

Seeing the exchange, Sarah bit her left lip sharply and jumped in. "It was my idea. . . it was something I wanted."

"You wanted?" Ellie asked, her tone sharpening, as her neck careened towards Sarah.

Sarah took a deep breath as her cheeks blushed. "It's just, gosh, this is so embarrassing . . . I've never liked the natural look . . ." she took another huge gulp, "the natural _feel_ you know, um, in there. So I asked Chuck, and he agreed to do it. He didn't tell you because, um, it's kinda privates. . . private."

Ellie turned her head back towards Chuck. "So, to get this straight. . . you had life alerting, permanent, surgery on your genitals just to make Sarah happy?"

The guilt and embarrassment on Chuck's face magnified. "Yeah, pretty much," he responded.

Immediately, Ellie's cold stare transformed into a warm smile. She turned giddy, and clapped her hands excitedly. "I knew it. I knew she was the one," she exclaimed.

Chuck's eyes peaked off the floor, utterly confused. "I, um, don't understand."

Ellie's smile turned radiant. She bent over the table and kissed him on the cheek. "You two. . . with all the back-and-forth . . . with the relationship that went nowhere for two years. Chuck, wouldn't have done this, made a decision like this, unless you knew she was for keeps." She pulled him into a big hug, as Chuck looked bewilderingly at Sarah.

* * *

The next morning, Team Bartowski, Walt included, drove down to San Diego in a large, undistinguished blue van. Casey took the wheel, while Sarah rode shotgun. Chuck and Walt sat in the back, reviewing files.

As the van sped over a large pothole, Chuck grimaced and grabbed towards his nether regions. "Still sore," he complained.

Casey called back to him. "Cheer up Bartowski. Some men have the privilege of giving their lives for this country. You only gave an inch. Maybe two."

"Casey!" Sarah quipped. Casey flashed her a sly smile, then turned back towards the road.

"Not complaining, just sore." Chuck answered.

Casey grunted, then turned friendly. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one. . . . let's just say that you can't go on a mission that may involve spending three weeks trapped in a Costa Gravan palace wall while worrying about man-parts issues. Haven't missed the hood."

"TMI, Casey, TMI" Chuck replied.

Walt scowled at his team. "Can we return our focus to the objective – to Gracia, and to Joseph?"

Sarah turned her head back towards Walt. "That's one thing I don't understand . . . why are we trying to get to Joseph through his sister? Why not run a standard seduction at him — either with me or, _someone else?"_

Walt nodded, as he chewed on the eye piece of his glasses. "Look at his file. He's 33 years old. From what we can tell, he's never had a girlfriend or, for that matter, a boyfriend. Hell, we don't think he's ever been on a regular, romantic date. Nor is there any hint of, um, other proclivities. He appears to be asexual, or pretty close to it."

Chuck rustled through the papers some more from the back seat. "I have been going through his file. Walt, are you sure we're right about him?"

Walt's curiosity peaked. "I don't know what you mean," he answered.

Chuck passed him a piece of paper. "I mean, they live in an 1100 square foot, 2-bedroom ranch house. Joseph drives a 1998 Honda Civic. Gracia bikes to work. No substantial assets in stocks, bonds, or real estate. He doesn't live like a money-laundering gangster."

Walt nodded again. "He lives frugality. So what? So did many of the best. Even Al Capone lived in a modest brick house in Chicago. I'm sure Joseph's got his assets stashed somewhere. Maybe you can find them."

Chuck shook his head as he passed Walt another piece of paper. "I'm not so sure. Look at these donations. Quite generous. And not the kinds of stuff that people do for show . . . malaria nets for sub-Saharan Africa, potable water systems in rural Mexico, you name it. Something doesn't add up here."

Walt blew raspberries. "So he's Robin Hood? Please. You're young, Charles. That charity stuff, it's a front. It's always a front with these kinds of people. No one gets in business with the cartels, or the Ring, just to bring clean water to Chiapas. And even if it's not a front - and it is - maybe the water in some village is now clean. But Joseph's as dirty as they come."

Chuck looked at Walt, then shrugged off his comment. For some reason, he couldn't find a way to agree with him. Somewhere inside him, a little voice told him that Joseph was more complicated than Walt believed.

* * *

The van pulled into a non-descript two-family home. "It's an old FBI safehouse," Walt explained as he opened the door, "we've got it on loan from them, re-purposed it a bit." Walt climbed the stairs, gesturing the closed door on the first floor below. "I've got the smaller apartment. The rest of you have the bigger one upstairs."

Walt opened the door. As he did so, Chuck was awestruck. The dimensions were a bit off, but the furniture, the layout. . . it looked like almost a carbon copy of the old Ecco Park apartment he used to share with Ellie and Devon.

Walt noticed Chuck's amazement and smiled, his eye twinkling. "We wanted you all to feel at home. For this to work, according to the psych profile, Charles Levi has to be quite a lot like Chuck Bartowski. Come on, let me show you to your rooms. There's something you'll wanna see." He guided them down the hall.

At the end of the hallway, Chuck opened the door on the right and, other than the _mezuzah_ strapped diagonally to the doorpost, walked into a carbon copy of his old bedroom – Tron poster and everything.

"This is where you'll be staying," Walt said. "Casey and Sarah will have the room across the hall."

"Together?" Chuck asked.

Walt nodded again. "Yes, together. With the Intersect not working properly, you'll need them both for protection. And we need to maintain their cover as boyfriend-girlfriend."

Chuck paused a bit, nervously, as he loosed across the hall. "So, one bed for them?" Seeing his tension, Sarah grasped his arm affectionately.

Walt sighed. "Yes, one bed."

Casey half-chuckled. "Heh. What's a matter Bartowski? Afraid of some competition from a real man? Don't worry. . ." He snapped his neck towards Sarah, to meet her glance. "Like I told your girlfriend before, not interested."

Sarah leaned herself slightly against Chuck's shoulders. "Well, look on the bright-side. We wanted to live together, and we're living together. . . right?"

Walt, seeing the affectionate display, intervened. "You'll need to tone that down, soon enough. I, myself, am indifferent. But the current plan is for Chuck to introduce himself to Gracia tomorrow. Once that happens, we can't give her any inkling of the true nature of your relationship."

"Understood," Chuck answered, rather sadly.

Walt continued. "This is for your benefit, Chuck. Being a spy, it's not that you can't have emotions. But you need to learn to control them. Sarah, I know, can turn hers off-and-on - like a faucet. This mission. . . it's real work. We want you to get to the bottom of Joseph's operations. Find where he's keeping the Ring's money. But it's also, in some respects, training – under close supervision. The test here is, can you keep your emotions and check and do what you need to do, to get the job done?"

* * *

The next afternoon, Team Bartowski's van pulled around the corner from Kingman's Comics, the store where Gracia worked. Their information said that Gracia was working a 1 p.m. to 6 p.m. shift today. Surveillance picked her up entering the store at 12:57. It was now 1:43. She was the only clerk on duty, and the story was empty. The perfect time for the team to make their move.

"So, what do I do?" Chuck asked.

Sarah tenderly grabbed his arms and kissed him briefly on the lips. "Be yourself, literally. You've got this. And we'll be right here, watching. Remember, this is to stop the Ring . . . and to protect an innocent woman from them."

Chuck flashed her a soft smile, as he got out of the van. As the door closed behind him, Sarah allowed a small tear to drip from her eye. She sighed.

Walt patted her on the shoulder. "Nice work."

Observing the scene, Casey emitted a grunt # 14: mild anger, with an undercurrent of disappointment.

Chuck, meanwhile, meandered into the store. It was a small establishment. Maybe 40 feet long, and no more than 12 feet wide. Gracia stood at the counter, wearing a fake customer-service smile, and playing with her brown hair streaked with green and purple. She wore a customer service smock, decorated with an image of the Martian Manhunter.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Chuck approached. "Yeah, I'm looking for Legends of the Dark Knight #8-13."

Gracia turned to him kind of curiously. "That's rather specific, and unremarkable. Nothing major happened in those issues."

Chuck gave her a friendly smile, his brown eyes connecting with her. "I know. I'm just trying to replace some damaged comics. You see, I had a complete set . . . all 214 issues. But I just moved here, and some got damaged during the move."

Gracia smiled back at him. "Where from?"

"Los Angeles. I moved down with my brother and his girlfriend. We're doing some network security stuff down here."

Gracia looked up into his eyes, and smiled again. "Hmm… Legends of The Dark Knight #8-13 you said? Let me see what I can do." She turned around. As she did, her hand flickered briefly against Chuck's. "Follow me."

She escorted Chuck down the aisle, bent down, and picked up a box of Batman back-issues. "Look through here. If we have them, that's where they'll be."

Chuck looked at the box, and couldn't help but notice that Gracia's eye contact remained firm. He remembered his training with Roan, back at the Farm – what Roan had called "indicators of interest." Or, more simply, a woman's tells. The conscious and unconscious ways that humans display attraction. Maintaining eye contact with Gracia, he spotted them. The soft smile. The arms uncrossed. The relaxed back. The way her eyes followed his, only to briefly glance away at the floor, before returning their focus towards him. He swallowed some air, and made his move.

"Hi, I'm Charles. . . Charles Levi." He extended his hand.

Gracia shook it. "Gracia, Gracia Benveniste."

Chuck put on a dopey grin. "So . . . . as I was saying, I'm new here. . . Any chance you'd be willing to show me around?

Gracia's smile expanded. "Sure, I'd love to. How about tomorrow night?"

* * *

A/N: So, a short-ish chapter. I apologize a bit for the length. But I haven't been able to update for a few weeks and, with the insanity (coronavirus) going around, didn't have time to write as much as I intended. So I broke the chapter here, a bit earlier than I intended. Maybe with the pseudo-quarantine I'll have more writing time - but trapped with little kiddies, I think I'll have less.


	9. Chuck vs Gracia Part 2

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

_Previously in Chuck v. The End of History_

_Walt: "The target is this woman, Gracia Benveniste." _

_Chuck: "She doesn't look like our usual bad guy, what did she do?" _

_Walt: "Nothing. She's a civilian. As far as we can tell, she's a complete innocent." _

_Chuck: "So why are we interested in her?" _

_Walt: "We have no interest in her. Our objective is her brother, Joseph. We have reason to believe that Joseph serves as something like a modern-day Meyer Lansky to a number of disreputable and criminal organizations, including the Ring."_

_Walt: "Consider this your first long-term seduction mission."  
* * *_

_Chuck: "So . . . . as I was saying, I'm new here. . . Any chance you'd be willing to show me around?_

_Gracia: "Sure, I'd love to. How about tomorrow night?"_

* * *

The next evening, Chuck met Gracia at a local sushi place. From the first moment, he _liked _her. Not in a romantic sense. Those feelings were reserved for Sarah now. But in a basic person-to-person sense. She was funny, wicked smart, and she carried the same charming hint of vulnerability that he possessed. And they shared _so_ much in common. She didn't just like Star Wars. She got it. From its origins in spaghetti westerns, to the influences from Japanese samurai movies, to its lasting influence on film making.

The evening sushi turned into a nightcap at a small bar, where a band played regional Mexican music from the state of Jalisco. The next night, they played chess at an all-night coffee shop. The night after that, they listened to old vinyl records at a music store.

The more time he spent with her, the harder he fell in _friend_ with her. If not for Sarah, she could have been more. Much more. And, to his regret, he sensed that she wanted more to – indeed, she was spending evenings with him because of the expectation of _more_.

But Sarah was there. So, at first unconsciously, then consciously, Chuck found himself compartamentalizing Gracia. "The friend-zone," he thought to himself. Then it dawned on him. He wasn't treating her like a mark, or like a date, but like a female Morgan. A Morgan with a better brain. And boobs. Morgan would have noticed her boobs.

Thinking that, Chuck reminded himself of how much he missed the little bearded guy. He hoped Morgan was doing well in Hawaii. They had barely spoken in months. Between the spy training at the Farm, and missions when he got back, and whatever was going on in Morgan's life . . . their almost daily phone calls had become weekly. Then monthly. On his way to meet Gracia for dinner, it occurred to Chuck that he hadn't spoken to Morgan in almost six weeks. To be sure, Sarah provided companionship. Casey provided an awkward yet reliable friendship. Ellie, although his life, _this life_, brought distance between them, was still physically living just across the courtyard. And Roan, of all people, had been a centered voice he could turn to for guidance. . . guidance that Morgan used to provide. But there remained a big Morgan-sized hole in his life. Offhandedly, Chuck wondered if maybe Gracia could be his new Morgan, once this was through. Thinking that, Chuck shook his head and scowled. She wasn't a replacement for Morgan. She was a mark. Walt said it. Sarah and Casey reinforced it. Nothing but a means to an end. . . getting to her brother, an alleged financial mastermind for the Ring. And he was using her. She wasn't his friend. Wouldn't be his friend. "Victim" would be the more appropriate word. Chuck felt the vomit build within his throat. He swallowed it.

Although he felt her attraction towards him, he could sense though that she hid certain things from him. She mentioned living with her brother Joseph, and exclaimed her pride in him with zeal. Yet, coyly, she avoided what he did for a living. She did discuss the subject of MIT, once. Briefly. All she said was "something bad happened." Then she said no more. Casey and Sarah told Chuck not to press. As Sarah explained, the way to work a mark is to not let them _think_ that you are working them. Just spend time with her, she advised, and let Gracia open up to him.

Soon enough she did, albeit slowly. Chuck made the first familial introductions, inviting Gracia back to the apartment to meet his "brother" John and John's girlfriend "Serena." Gracia flinched when she saw Serena, and felt a queasy feeling in her stomach as she watched Chuck and Serena exchange fleeting glances. But she suppressed the little voice in her head that said something wasn't quite right. And, shortly thereafter, Gracia finally invited Chuck over for Sunday dinner, to meet her brother.

To Chuck's relief, one thing he had been able to avoid during his seduction was physicality. He didn't make a move. And neither did she. He could feel her attraction, her desire, beating down on him with every glance. But she didn't move to kiss him. And she also seemed relieved that he made no move on her. He certainly was relieved. By _friend-zoning _her, no, _victim-zoning_ her, he had _almost_ convinced himself that his time with Gracia wasn't cheating, wasn't a betrayal of Sarah. Of course, Sarah assured him that it was not. And, Chuck sensed, she even seemed to believe it. But, compartmentalization aside, he couldn't quite silence the little voice in his head. The voice which told him that this was all very wrong. Wrong to Gracia. Wrong to Sarah. Wrong to himself.

From the bottom of his soul, Chuck felt he was cheating. Cheating, he knew, was broader than the sex he wasn't having. Or any kind of physicality. At its core, it was closeness. . . closeness that he had pledged to share only with Sarah. And which he was now exchanging, even _enjoying_, with someone else. Someone that he was trying to save, he surmised, but that he might have to betray. And someone that he had gotten very close to. Two days before their appointed dinner meeting with her brother, he spent the entire day with her. First the zoo. Then dinner and an evening walk. Then Gracia spent the night. Neither of them intended for her to. And nothing physical happened. But she and Chuck just fell asleep in Chuck's bed, arms curdled, watching _2001_.

* * *

From across the hallway, the Chuck-Gracia slumber party led to a restless night for Sarah. She tossed and turned. Sharing a bed with Casey was bad enough. He was used to sleeping alone. And it showed. He hogged the covers. He didn't shower before bed, and stank when he climbed underneath the sheets. Then, during the night, he farted. A lot. But, most importantly, he wasn't Chuck. And the person she wanted to be sharing a bed with was in the same apartment, with someone else. At her encouragement.

"Relax, Walker, they haven't done anything. The kid's kept himself pure for you. They are fast asleep. Nothing more." Casey remarked, snidely.

Sarah grabbed the blanket and tugged it away from Casey. "That's not the point."

Casey ripped the blanket back. "What? The point is that you dragged him into this, for some God-awful, unknown reason?"

Sarah didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her face said everything.

Casey flopped his head back on the pillow. "The kid's becoming a spy. That's a good thing, right? I mean, two years ago, did you ever think he'd have it in him to pull off a long-term seduction like this?"

Sarah turned away from him. Then she got up, grabbed a few extra pillows, and began assembling the nightly pillow-fort that kept her separated from Casey.

The fort assembled, she laid back and stared at the empty ceiling. To herself, in barely an audible whisper, she replied. "No, I didn't."

* * *

The next morning, Chuck and Gracia emerged from sleep cuddled in each other's arms. When Chuck awoke, he found Gracia's eyes fixated on him. They were glowing. Then she started crying. She tried to explain why. It was about sex. Or, rather, why she held off from it. Chuck told her not to worry about it, that it wasn't important to him, but Gracia pressed on.

"It was the beginning of my senior year, at MIT," she explained. "I'd gone out with him, Mike, a few times. I got a little drunk one night. He got rough. He did things. I said no, I tried to stop him . . . it didn't work." She huddled next to Chuck as the morning's sun's rays peaked through the window. "I couldn't take it, afterwards. Everything just fell apart."

Gracia slowly pulled up her sleeve. There was a slash marks on her left wrist. Self-inflicted. "I tried, but I couldn't go through with it. . . didn't get much more than a bad cut," she confessed. "Afterwards, I dropped out. Moved back home. My brother, he had made _sacrifices _for me. But he never said an unkind word. He just supported me. Told me it would be alright. That he would take care of it, take care of me. I . . . haven't been with a man since. At least not . . . in that way. I hope you understand. . . that you'll be patient with me. But last night, this morning. For me, it's closer than any sex could be. I hope you understand that."

"I do," Chuck replied, as he kissed the top of her head and cuddled her more tightly. Inside, anger built inside him. Anger at what happened to her. Anger at Walt, and, to a lesser degree, Sarah, for talking him through this mission. But, even more so, anger at himself. For what he was doing. What he was going to do to her. For what he _agreed _to do. Mike might have violated her physically. But Chuck knew he was in the process of violating just as bad, emotionally. And though the damage that he would inflict might not be illegal, indeed, might even be blessed by Uncle Sam, it made his stomach churn with guilt. All to be a spy. He didn't want to be a spy. He hated being a spy. But here he was. A spy.

* * *

The next day, Saturday, Chuck and Gracia planned a shopping date to the Seaport Village mall. They perused from store to store, while Casey and Sarah assumed bird's eye protective positions. It was when Chuck and Gracia were grabbing lunch that Casey spotted them.

"Sarah, two bogies on your flank," he exclaimed. Sarah turned around sharply, and her face turned ghost white. Ellie. Devon. They were here. Shopping. What the _hell _were they doing here? What did it matter? Here they wore. She jerked her head towards Chuck and Gracia's location. They were sitting affectionately. Holding hands. She flinched back and spotted Ellie and Devon. She tried to contact Chuck but got only static in his earpiece. Not knowing what to do, she ran towards the newlyweds.

She intercepted Ellie and Devon about forty yards from where Chuck and Gracia were seated. She gauged the situation. _Dammit_. Ellie had a straight line of sight.

"Ellie, Devon, fancy meeting you here. . . what are you doing all the way in San Diego?" Sarah asked.

"My god . . . Sarah, what a coincidence," Ellie responded. "Devon and I had our first anniversary as a dating couple at a restaurant a little while away. That was seven years ago, today. We thought we'd come back her to celebr . . . my god, is that Chuck?" Ellie spotted them. Sarah turned beet red, then pale white. "And who is Chuck with . . . holding hands?" Ellie asked, frantically.

Ellie began spiraling. "Oh my god. . . are you and Chuck having problems . . . is he cheating on you . . . is that why you're here? Catching him in the act? I'm going to rip my brother a new one if that's what he's doing." She began moving towards Chuck, but Sarah stopped her.

"Ellie. . . it's ok, I know." Sarah said, in a semi-frantic tone that nevertheless evoked a calming vibe.

Ellie looked at Sarah as if she was a wounded puppy. Then storm clouds exploded in Ellie's eyes. "You KNOW? You must be, heart-broken . . . I'm going to kill him. She again tried to rush towards Chuck. Again, Sarah stopped her.

"NO!" Sarah said. Out of options, Sarah called an audible. "You don't understand. . . it's not his fault. It's not him. . . I _asked _him to do this."

Ellie's anger remained, but a look of total confusion overlaid on top of it. "You did WHAT?"

Sarah stammered, trying to manufacture a lie as fast as she could. "It's private. My gosh, I'm so embarrassed. But, I, um . . . like to _watch_. Him and, um, other women. Chuck, he's doing this for _me_ . . . for _us_."

Ellie stared at Sarah, utterly bewildered. "And Chuck, my little brother. . . he's doing this? He's ok with this?"

Sarah's face blushed a deep red again. "Mm hmm. Please . . . don't tell him you know . . . don't interrupt him."

Ellie queried Sarah, her eyes sharp as daggers. "For over two years, you kept saying it was 'complicated.' Did it have anything to do with 'this,' with your _preferences_?"

Sarah struggled to maintain cover as a mortified expression grew upon her face. She tried hard to come up with a witty comeback that would make everything ok.

Flummoxed, she answered: "He was reluctant at first. But he wants to make me happy."

_'Great going, Walker,'_ Sarah scowled to herself. She realized that answer completely screwed the pooch.

Ellie threw up her hands, as her eyes turned to ice. "Whatever. Devon, we're out of here. But Sarah, this isn't over. Not by a long shot." She puffed hardly and turned her back to Sarah.

As they walked away, Devon turned his head around towards Sarah and mouthed "S-P-Y-I-N-G?" Sarah nodded back to him, affirmatively.

* * *

Inside the surveillance van, Sarah fitted a small tracker onto Chuck's chest, then buttoned his navy-blue dress shirt. "You look nice tonight," she said. She reached over and kissed him softly on the left cheek, earning grimaces from both Casey and Walt. Noticing their displeasure, she planted a soft, almost chaste kiss on Chuck's lips. "Remember, Chuck, we're here. Just one street over. If you're in trouble, if you _flash_, just signal us."

Chuck feigned a confident smile. "Right-o."

Walt offered some parting words. "You don't need to save the planet tonight, Chuck. This is just the first step. Get Joseph to like you, to trust you. Now go get 'em." He slapped Chuck on the back as Chuck existed the van.

After the door closed, turned towards Sarah. "Now, activate the surveillance device in his ear," Walt instructed.

Sarah protested. "You mean the one he doesn't even know he has? Are you sure that's safe? What will happen if it gets detected?"

Walt looked at her untroubled. "Then we'll see how long one of those kung-fu flashes can last before Chuck passes out."

It was an overcast night, more typical of May or June than mid-autumn, and unusually cool. Chuck half-shimmered as he walked up to the door of the nondescript ranch house. He knocked.

Joseph opened the door shortly thereafter. He was a short-ish man in his early-to-mid 30s, about Walt's height, with olive skin and jet-black hair. He carried a bit of a pot belly. He opened the door wearing a maroon sweatshirt and jeans. Chuck's eyes darted to the floor and he noticed that Joseph was bare-footed. Not even socks covered his feet.

"You must be Chuck, come on it," Joseph said, blinking rapidly, and welcoming him inside to a small foyer.

As soon as Chuck stepped inside, Sarah, Walt, and Casey all felt large amounts of static emanate from the ear surveillance. Casey spoke first. "Dammit, there's a jammer. We're not getting any transmission."

"Is Chuck in danger?" Sarah inquired, worryingly.

Casey shook his head. "Not necessarily. It probably just means that they know enough about how alphabet agencies work to block the signals we use. It doesn't mean they know that Chuck's transmitting, well, trying to transmit."

Sarah prodded. "We should call it off. Go in. Extract him."

Walt sighed. "There's no reason to overreact. Is the tracker still operational?," Walt asked, turning towards Casey.

Casey acknowledged his superior. "Affirmative. It uses a different radio signal. We're getting data from the tracker . . . Chuck's heartbeat, etc. The kid's alright, for now."

Walt turned back towards Sarah. "Then, for now, we wait. And we'll see what kind of spy we've got."

Meanwhile, back at the house, Joseph guided Chuck inside. "It's not much, the kitchen is right though here, then the dining-slash-living room."

Observing Joseph, Chuck was struck by the man's awkward, herky-jerky movements. Joseph's voice sounded nervous, pensive. Joseph avoided close contact. He seemed ill-at ease, and not because of anything particular to Chuck.

Just then, Chuck felt a flash coming on. He faked a sneeze as the images sped through his mind. Medical images. Joseph's mannerisms, his tone, his awkwardness. . . they were symptoms. Joseph was mildly autistic, probably with something akin to Asperger's Syndrome. Never diagnosed, never treated. And so not in the _informational_ intersect. But, apparently, Joseph displayed enough obvious traits to trigger a medical knowledge flash after just a few minutes of contact.

Joseph watched the scene carefully, almost as if he was studying Chuck's "sneeze." Then he escorted Chuck into the living-slash-dining room. It was a simple room. The dining room table was an old, ratty wooden table which sat six on creaky chairs. A faded orange and yellow cloth couch sat a few feet away, perched in front of an old CRT television.

Chuck sat down next to Gracia, and Joseph quickly emerged from the kitchen with a pot of spaghetti, a jar of tomato sauce, four pieces of pita bread, a container of hummus, a jar of pickles, and a bag of oranges.

"So, Chuck, what is it you do?" Joseph asked, as he helped himself to some spaghetti, which he topped with a helping of hummus. Using his hands, he mixed the hummus in with the spaghetti, then sprinkled four pickles upon the concoction. He then passed the spaghetti pot to Gracia.

"I guess you could say that I'm in IT," Chuck responded. "We've got a job down here, getting ready for Comic-Con. What do you do?"

Joseph jerked back, then responded seriously. "Finance." Just then, Joseph felt his cellphone buzz. He answered it, in Spanish, and immediately began a Spanish language conversation.

Chuck felt another flash coming on. A _language _flash. Hearing the Spanish had triggered it. He feigned another sneeze, catching Joseph's attention . . . and a very odd, serious look quickly emerged on Joseph's face.

Meanwhile, Chuck began panicking. . . the buggy Intersect. Afraid to speak, he scribbled down a note and passed it to Gracia.

She read the note and beamed with admiration. "_I non ventrum est scire Latine,_" (_"I didn't know you spoke Latin_") she whispered in Chuck's ear, _"Suus meus ventus lingua._" ("_It's my favorite language_.")

Flummoxed, Chuck looked down at the note. It was in pure Latin. _"That damn Latin bug_," he thought to himself. Apparently, now that he flashed, he couldn't write English any better than he could speak it. He felt sweat pouring down his face. The Latin would last for hours. He had to get out of there. He started grabbing his stomach, and began screaming in phantom pain. "Veniam in me, i paenitet," ("Excuse me, I'm sorry") he muttered to Gracia as he scampered off into the kitchen.

Joseph looked sternly at the very confused Gracia. "The dinner is over. Wait here." he instructed, firmly. He then darted into the kitchen after Chuck, finding him already in the pantry trying to open the locked door.

"Can I help you with that?" Joseph asked, as he opened the door. "You want some fresh air?"

Chuck nodded affirmatively, and the two walked outside - Joseph still without shoes, Hobbit-like. Joseph tried to make small talk, which Chuck responded to with a series of grunts. Just then, Chuck felt a small pinch in his neck. He looked down at the small dart sticking out from his skin, and then at Joseph's head, standing over him, as he crumpled to the driveway pavement.

* * *

Chuck's eyes fluttered awake. He was tied to a comfortable old recliner, in what appeared to be a garage. Formless images began to clarify, as light and darkness settled into different shades of color.

Joseph was standing over him. "Wakey, wakey, Mr. Charles Levi. Or should I say, Captain Charles Bartowski? Or, would you prefer a different title? The Human Intersect, perhaps?"

Chuck attempted to speak. His mouth tasted gummy, like a half-dozen Novocain injections were suddenly wearing off. "How long have I been out?," he asked.

Joseph herked and jerked, and responded in an awkward semi-stutter. "Not long, maybe 10 minutes. You'll notice you are speaking English now. The darts, or rather the tranquilizer in them, they have that effect . . . they slow down the brain. Not enough to cause permanent damage, at least not in small quantities. Just enough to prevent the brain from accessing the Intersect for awhile. In effect, they short-circuit that little computer in your head. Which is a good thing, because, um, my Latin is quite nonexistent."

"Gracia?" Chuck asked.

Joseph nervously attempted to calm his guest. "She's fine. I told her you took ill and left. She's in the main house, as we speak. She currently knows nothing of your real profession. I brought you here because I needed to talk with you. Alone."

Chuck looked up at his jailer. Joseph was in the same maroon sweatshirt. He still wasn't wearing socks or shoes. He appeared to be unarmed. A skills flash, even a small one, and Chuck could likely make his escape and get back to the van before he buggy Intersect caused him to pass out.

"You are probably plotting your escape now, aren't you?" Joseph asked. "Don't bother. The dart hasn't worn off yet. It won't for hours. Until it does, you are just plain old Charles Bartowski. No flashes. No powers. But that's all just as well because, you see Charles, I'm one of the good guys. And I need your help."

Joseph was smiling. An awkward smile, but a smile nevertheless.

Chuck stared up at him, and muttered. "Huh?"

* * *

A/N #1: I apologize for the irregular posting schedule. For obvious reasons, I haven't been commuting the past few weeks, and my train time was my writing time. I was hoping to wrap this mini-arc up in this chapter, but it might be a few more weeks before I can write more. The conclusion is next.

A/N #2: If someone could post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, that would be appreciated.


	10. Chuck vs Gracia Part 3

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

Joseph smiled awkwardly at his captive. "I do not believe we've been formally introduced. I am Joseph Benveniste. And I work for the Ring. More specifically, I help to handle their money."

Joseph paused, attempting to study Chuck, unsuccessfully. "I don't read faces well . . . people well. But I'm gathering that you know this already. It's why you were sent here, isn't it? To Gracia, to me? You probably have questions. Perhaps I have answers."

Still in a daze, Chuck looked up at him. "How . . . how did you know all that stuff. About the Intersect? About me?"

Joseph walked around the room, then sat on an old work bench. "The Ring knows. It is far more integrated into the halls of power than you can possibly imagine."

"Who?" Chuck asked.

Joseph looked at Chuck curiously. "The World Health Organization? Yes, even there."

"No, who?" Chuck prodded.

Joseph's expression remained unclear. "Daniel Hu? The Undersecretary of State? Maybe he's one of us. I really don't know. I'm afraid I don't know specifics, at least not names. I have only one contact. He gives me information, money. I keep track of it. He told me about you, about the Intersect. Even about that nasty little Latin bug in your software."

"What do you want?," Chuck inquired.

Joseph attempted to form a smile. "I said that I work for the Ring. I didn't say that it was my choice. You've been sent to us. . . so you know our back story. We were orphaned when Gracia was a teenager. We had no money. I needed to find a way to pay for Gracia's college. MIT is expensive, you know. It turns out . . . my condition, I'm good with data, good with numbers. Kind of like _Rain Man_, except I'm higher functioning. Anyway, I found work with a local bookie. I could keep track of the bets in my head, you see. One thing let to another and, instead of just keeping track of the bets, he asked me to start keeping track of his money. And it turns out that I can spot patterns pretty well. Not like you with embedded images. More like figures in corporate financial reports. I could figure out when companies were committing fraud. So I knew when to short their stock. In another world, another life, I could have been a Buffett or a Soros. But in this one? Well, the bookie, he was ecstatic. And a good guy. But it turns out he owed people himself."

Chuck looked up at Joseph again. "The Ring?"

Joseph nodded. "The bookie . . . he traded me. To help pay off his debts. I was under the Ring's thumb now. It wasn't so bad, in some respects. They gave me money for Gracia's college, for other things. I found places for them to invest, and helped set up a dizzying mix of shell companies to hide where their money went."

"I'm sensing there's a 'but' coming."

Joseph nodded again. "I don't feel things the way most people do. At least not for anyone but Gracia. Still, some of what they did . . . it wasn't me. Gracia told you what happened to her at MIT?"

Chuck nodded. "The guy, she mentioned you said that you'd take care of it?"

Joseph sighed. "And so I did. I told my Ring contact what happened. I talked big. I thought they would scare him for me. Get him to quit MIT. Something like that. What they actually did. . . they cut his balls off, then fed them to him. And they provided me with audio footage of me giving the order. I said the words. I didn't mean them. Exaggerating for effect, you know. But now they had leverage. To keep me under their thumb. But it's not just that. . . I handle the money, but I'm not blind. I've seen what they do. The drugs. The women. The young boys and girls. I know where the money comes from . . . what it's used for. And I didn't want any part of it."

"The charitable donations?" Chuck probed.

Joseph nodded again. "My penance. The Ring does pay me . . . I'm their servant, not their slave. But it's blood money. I have no need of it. The only thing I care about is Gracia. So the money. . . I give it to where it might make a difference. . . hope that some good can come out of . . . all this evil."

"So what do you want with me?"

Joseph opened a switch-blade knife and cut the ropes tying Chuck to a chair. "You are free to go."

Chuck felt relief as the ropes constricting his wrists fell by the wayside. "What now?," he asked.

Joseph twitched awkwardly. "I want a deal. Protection for me, and for my sister. With what we have to offer, I'm sure your bosses will accept. We'll be at your apartment at 6 p.m. tomorrow evening, to work out the specifics."

* * *

"I don't trust Joseph," Walt snarked from inside the van, following Chuck's return and debriefing. "He's a Ring money man. He's been one for years."

"He got in over his head," Chuck retorted. "I know the feeling."

Sarah grabbed Chuck's arm tenderly and steadied him. She put her eyes close to his, then put her hands om his cheeks. "Chuck, do you trust him?"

"I do," Chuck responded.

Sarah smiled, then smirked at Walt. "Well, then that's good enough for me."

Walt shook his head. "I've read the reports. Your boyfriend. He trusted that Ring skank last year . . . Ms. Roberts. He trusted that guy who held up the Buy More. Chuck, you may have a computer in your head. But you've got a lot to learn about whom to trust."

Hearing Walt's last remark, Chuck flashed him a dirty look, which he quickly sought to suppress.

A grunt emerged from Casey. "As much as I don't want to admit it, Walt's got a point. The entire set up smells like a trap. If Joseph's on the up-and-up, why not come forward sooner?"

"Maybe because he didn't know who to trust," Chuck answered. He glanced at Walt, but his eyes involuntarily flickered towards Sarah for a fraction of a second. "I know that feeling too."

Catching the glimmer from Chuck's glance, Sarah felt her heart sink. She spoke. "Whether it's a trap or not, does it really matter? The Ring knows about the Intersect, it knows about Chuck. We need to know what it knows. . . and how it knows it."

Casey backed her up. "Walker's got a point. I put several passed out Ring agents in body bags back in that Intersect room to keep the kid's secret secure. How did it leak? And how did the Ring figure out counter-measures, those tranqs, against the Intersect so quickly? We need to see this through."

Walt stood up and paced, chewing on the rim of his glasses. "What if seeing this through means a team of Ring agents descend on our position, while we're trapped in that damn apartment."

Casey responded. "Unlikely. The brother knows about the apartment. That means the Ring knows. They could have sent an attack team last night to kill us dead in our sleep. They didn't. The meet tomorrow, it's on the level."

Walt nodded reluctantly.

* * *

Chuck paced frantically around the cover apartment. He glanced at the clock. Joseph and Gracia would be there in 10 minutes. "What do we do, when they get here?," he asked.

Sarah pulled her eyes up from a laptop computer screen where she was monitoring surveillance. "We listen. We take down their information. And we try to make them feel . . . comfortable."

Chuck turned towards her. "What do I tell her . . . . about me and her . . . about us."

Sarah took a sip of water. "Tell her the truth, to a point." She gulped. "Tell her that we're partners. Tell her that you're basically the same guy she's been seeing . . . that we chose you because you _are _that guy. And tell her that, if circumstances were different, maybe you'd have a future." She swallowed air again.

Chuck raised his eyebrow. "If circumstances were different?"

Sarah took a deep breath. "You know what I mean. . . I've seen the two of you together. You two, you so much in common. You jell, in a way . . ."

Chuck's mouth formed into a sly smile. "In a way that makes you jealous?"

Sarah smiled back. "Maybe a little." Sarah paused a bit. "Chuck, even though you want to . . . don't tell her about us. It will just cause her pain."

Chuck looked at her, the guilt cascading over his face. "I owe her the truth."

Sarah approached and tenderly grasped his hand. "Remember how you felt, at the end of that first night, when you found out," she corrected herself, "when you _thought_, that our date was fake . . . that I was an agent? That was one night. You've been together three weeks. Do you really want her to feel worse than she already will? Besides, in a few days, she'll be living under an assumed name in witness protection. Free of the Ring . . . free of us."

Chuck nodded with understanding. Just then, the doorbell rang. "It's them," he said.

Casey and Walt emerged from downstairs, escorting them up to the cover apartment's dining room table. They all took seats.

"Can I offer you something? Tea?" Chuck asked. He didn't make eye contact at Gracia. It wouldn't have mattered. Her eyes stayed affixed to the floor.

"Yes, tea, that would be nice," she said softly.

Joseph twitched as he sat down. He also took a cup of tea, then opened a few condiment packets from the tray and dumped them in.

"That's pepper." Casey said.

Joseph didn't acknowledge him. He opened two more pepper packets, and dumped it in his tea. Then he took a healthy gulp. "So, to business?" he asked.

Walt smiled at him from across the table. "What do you want Mr. Benveniste?"

Joseph took another large sip of his pepper infused tea. "Immunity, to begin with. And safety . . . for me and Gracia. Someplace far away."

Walt answered coldly, abruptly, without the false friendliness that he usually employed. "That can be arranged, Mr. Benveniste. But that depends on what you can offer."

Joseph jerked slightly in his chair. "A ledger. Bank accounts. Lists of securities. Shell companies with structures more convoluted than a George R.R. Martin novel. About $40 million in total."

Walt's eyebrows raised, as he crossed his arms. "People?"

Joseph shook his head. "Only my contact. Bel Riose. I assume that's a cover name, but I don't know for sure."

Walt turned to Chuck, who sat immobile. "Anything, Captain Bartowski?"

"I got nothing." Chuck responded. No flash. No information. Whomever Bel Riose was, the information wasn't in the Intersect. Or, at least, a flash didn't trigger.

Walter turned back towards Joseph, "Can you set up a meeting with him?"

Joseph brushed his hair with his hands, a bit disjointedly. "We have a meeting set up for tomorrow night. But . . .." Joseph lifted his finger and pointed towards Chuck, "only he can join me."

Sarah's face grew tense. "Unacceptable," she said sternly.

Walt's voice grew calm. "Why?," leaving it ambiguous as to whether he was addressing Joseph or Sarah.

Joseph blinked his eyes rapidly. "I don't know everything. I'm a money manager, not an agent. But I know they know about Chuck, about his gift. More than that . . ." Joseph paused, trying to formulate the words.

Walt prodded him. "Go on."

Joseph turned away from Chuck, and focused on Walt. "They . . . have plans for him. . . for Chuck. He's under their protection. Bel Riose. . . he told me, point blank, that if harmed your agent, I'd have the life expectancy of a gnat. . . . that's why he can come. He'd be safe. If I'm with him, _I'd be safe_. I could pitch it to my contact as me turning Chuck to our side."

Walt nodded. "Very well, give us the details of the meet. You'll have your deal. . . . You and Gracia, you are both fluent Spanish speakers, correct?"

Gracia spoke, softly. "Yes, our parents were from Mexico. They spoke to us in Spanish growing up, with a little Ladino mixed in."

Walt smiled. "Good. Tomorrow night we do the meet. The next day, the papers will record that Joseph and Gracia Benveniste died in a tragic car accident. Two days later, Jose and Gracia Lopez will move into a nice cottage in Paraguay, about a ninety-minute drive from Asuncion."

Gracia's eyes peaked up. "Paraguay?"

Walt put on his comforting smile. "I have contacts there, outside normal CIA channels. People I can trust. . . Are those terms acceptable?"

Joseph nodded affirmatively, Gracia gave a quarter-nod.

"Alright, anything else?" Walt asked.

Gracia looked fleetingly towards Chuck. "One thing . . . Charles . . . was it all a mission? Was none of it real? Are you even anything like the guy I met . . . . the guy I was falling for?"

Chuck looked back at her, unable to form words.

Fighting her better judgment, Sarah answered. "He's that guy. . . the same guy you met. That's why he was assigned to you. He won't say it . . . he's not much with words . . . but he doesn't do fake."

Gracia turned towards Sarah. She noticed the look. _That look_. The glowing admiration. Even about routine matters. "I see," she said quietly. "And the two of you?"

Chuck coughed. "Just colleagues," he answered.

Joseph scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to Walt. "Here's what you need to know about tomorrow night."

* * *

Five minutes after Joseph and Gracia left, the team plotted the next evening's mission.

Walt turned towards his senior agents and grilled them. "Walker, Casey, which one of you is better at close quarters hand-to-hand combat?"

Sarah jumped in, cutting Casey off. "I am," she declared proudly.

Casey sighed slightly. "She is," he admitted.

Walt paced the room. "The set-up. I don't like it. We're not sending Chuck in alone. Walker, accompany him. Make up some bullshit about you defecting with him, I don't care."

Chuck protested. "But Joseph clearly said to come alone."

Walt retorted quickly. "I know what he said. But like hell I'm sending you to this kind of setup by yourself, particularly with that damn buggy intersect. Walker will go with you to provide close quarters protection. Casey and I will take up observation and sniping positions on opposite roofs across from the park."

"You snipe?" Casey asked, almost sounding impressed.

Walt chuckled. "If you are a 5'6 plain looking man and want to be a spy, you better learn how to snipe."

The chuckle faded, and Walt's face turned serious, as he moved his glaze towards Chuck. "One more thing . . . Chuck, it's my understanding that you've got maybe 5 minutes of juice in a skills flash before you pass out."

"Sounds about right," Chuck said reluctantly.

Walt's eye began twinkling and he turned on the charm. "If you flash, get the hell out of there as fast as you can. I'll arrange a backup driver. He'll have your signal. Fight whomever you have to fight to escape, then run like hell. My guy will find you. . . Oh, and one more thing."

Chuck responded with non-vocal surprise.

Walt smiled at him. "You did good on this mission. I'm impressed."

* * *

The next night, Sarah and Chuck went to the rendezvous spot in the park. The night air was chilly and damp. Unseasonal droplets of rain began falling from the sky.

Joseph approached, a bit frantic. "I told you to come alone . . . Bel Riose, he won't like this."

Sarah's eyes shot an icy glare. "He'll live. . . maybe."

Just then, a strange voice called out. It sounded loud, authoritative, and angry.

"Joseph, I said you could bring the Asset. Why is the blond here?"

Chuck, Sarah, and Joseph turned around. Standing in front of them was a 6'1 inch man in his early 40s, with wavy blond hair, wearing a San Diego Chargers windbreaker. His arm was stretched out, with a gun pointed at them.

"Bel Riose, I presume?" Sarah asked, "Not a very nice way to meet a new defector from the CIA."

The blond-haired man, Bel Riose, laughed. "Sarah Walker a traitor? Never. . . The only defector here is that treasonous money man standing next to you. But don't worry, you and the Asset weren't the only ones to come to this meeting with friends."

The blond-haired man whistled, and eight gunmen emerged from the shadows. "Put down your guns Agent Walker. It's a good thing for you that we want the Asset . . . undamaged. Come quietly, and neither you nor the Asset gets hurt."

Just then, shots rang out. Two of the henchmen dropped dead, from bullets in the center of their scalps. Chuck turned and saw the puffs of smoke from opposite rooftops. Hurriedly, Chuck and Sarah took cover. Chuck dashed behind a tree. Sarah jumped then crouched behind a wooden park bench. Two more shots rang out, and Sarah and Chuck heard two thumps on the ground. Two more dead henchmen, courtesy of sniped shots from Casey and Walt. Almost immediately thereafter, lightning flashed across the sky, and the drizzle become a downpour.

The next few minutes were pure wet chaos. Bel Riose and three of the remaining henchman dashed behind cover. Joseph simply turned tail and ran, eventually finding cover behind a car parked 100 meters away. Two of the remaining henchmen dived over the park bench and attacked Sarah. With quick kicks, she knocked the guns out of their hands. With two more kicks, she knocked one out cold. But the other clobbered her and grabbed her.

Seeing Sarah being taken, Chuck flashed – a skills flash. He jumped from behind the tree, acrobatically flung across the muddy night grass and, just as he was about to reach Sarah and her captor, got tackled by the final two henchmen. He quickly disarmed them and, jumping up while using their bodies for leverage, caused the two of them to smash their heads together. Both slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Chuck turned around frantically, trying to spot Sarah. He saw her. The body of the last henchman was laying flat on the ground next to her. But Sarah was firmly within Bel Riose's grasp, a knife abutting her neck.

Chuck looked on the ground, and picked up a gun that had been dropped by one of the now fallen henchmen. He stood and aimed the weapon at Bel Riose.

"I took this off your girlfriend," Bel Riose called out, referencing the knife. "I don't think she have much use for it. . . . But I meant what I said before. She can remain safe. Just come with us, Captain Bartowski."

Chuck looked intently at him. He had the shot. Clear as day. And, with the benefit of the Intersect, he could easily get it off before Bel Riose had any time to react. He would be dead, flat on the ground. And Sarah would be safe.

Chuck stared at him, still holding the gun. Casey yelled through Chuck's earpiece. "Chuck, take the shot. I don't have the angle." Walt concurred. "I've got a possible shot, Chuck. . . but you have the easier one."

Chuck felt his hand quiver then shake as he held the gun. He steadied his hand. But he couldn't pull the trigger. Then the ever-familiar yet unwelcome spinning in his head began.

A shot rang out. And two thumps were heard. Bel Riose, bleeding, hitting the ground, screaming in pain. And Chuck, flat on his back, unconscious. Sarah looked up and saw the puff of smoke from Walt's position. It was Walt who made the shot. Walt who had saved her. She put the thought out of her mind and dashed towards Chuck. She found him, non-responsive, on the muddy ground. She knelt down, took him in her arms, and began kissing his comatose head.

Five minutes later, Casey arrived. Sarah motioned him over to where Bel Riose was. Casey ripped off the sleeves from his shirt, attempted to stem the bleeding coming from Bel Riose's upper chest, and began applying first aid.

Bel Riose whispered, struggling to speak. "Why are you. . . helping me?"

Casey snarled back. "You mean, why aren't I just letting you die? Information. On the Ring. You have it. We want it."

Bel Riose began laughing, periodically pausing to cough up blood.

Casey barked at him. "What's so funny? What does the Ring want?"

Bel Riose smiled, almost euphorically. "Tttt. . . . the End of History." Then he bit into a cyanide capsule in his tooth. White foam quickly protruded from his mouth.

Casey grabbed his dying body and shook him. "What the hell does that mean?" But to no avail. Bel Riose was dead.

* * *

An hour later, a cleanup crew had arrived. Walt and Casey stood, debriefing Joseph. On a bench next to them, Chuck had just emerged from his coma-like state, and Sarah had him wrapped in a blanket. She held him tightly, giving him soft kisses. A large awning set up by the NSA cleaners shielded them all from the pounding rain.

That's when Gracia saw them. What she was doing there, they didn't know. Joseph wanted her far away. But here she was. Seeing them embrace. Tears filled her eyes, as the pouring rain pounded down. "You two. . . You're together aren't you."

Chuck and Sarah just looked at her. The guilt on their faces said it all.

Gracia spoke plainly, her quivering voice barely above a whisper. "I knew it. In my heart, I always knew it."

Chuck stammered, still holding Sarah. "I never meant. . ."

Gracia cut him off. "Save it. I'm not interested in the histrionics. So what happens now? To me and my brother? We fake our deaths, start a new life, with a new identity, in a country we know nothing about?"

Chuck nodded affirmatively. Gracia turned, and walked away.

"Where are you going?," he asked.

Gracia twisted her head to answer. "Home. If Gracia Benveniste's life ends tonight, I want to be myself for just a few hours more. I trust that's ok?"

Chuck was about to speak, but Sarah butted in. "Go. We'll have guards stationed outside," she said. "They'll pick you up tomorrow, and take you into witness protection."

With that, Gracia left. And Chuck, Sarah, and Casey climbed into a black SUV, and headed northward towards Los Angeles.

* * *

Forty-three minutes later, Casey was barreling down the highway, while Chuck and Sarah held onto each other tenderly in the back seat. Affection mixed with exhaustion. It was then when Chuck got the call. Gracia. He picked it up. He heard only a gurgling sound in the background. No, not gurgling. Weeping. And flamenco music, likely from a CD or computer. The language of the song wasn't quite Spanish. But it was close enough to Spanish to trigger a Spanish-flash. Straining through a slight language barrier, Chuck could make out the words, sung emotively by a female singer.

_Adio. Adio Querida. _

_No quiero la vida. _

_Me l'amagrates tu._

Goodbye. Goodbye, my love.

I don't want to live.

You made my life miserable.

_Tu madre cuando te pario._

_Y te quito al mundo _

_Corazon eya no te dio_

_Para amar segundo._

When your mother delivered you

And brought you into the world.

She did not give you the heart, to love another.

_Adio. Adio Querida. _

_No quiero la vida. _

_Me l'amagrates tu._

Chuck captured the meaning, as a horrified expression quickly dominated his face. "Nolite vehiculo! Revertere!" he screamed.

"Huh?" Casey asked, befuddled.

"It's Latin," Sarah explained. "He wants you to turn around. Something's wrong."

"Where to?" Casey asked.

"Domus Gracia!" Chuck screamed.

Casey got the message and floored it, while Sarah frantically called the house guards.

They got there in less than thirty minutes. When they arrived, the scene was deathly quiet. The rain had stopped. A lone guard waved them into the open house. Once inside, they followed the stench. Blood. It led to the bathroom, where another guard waived them in. Gracia was in the bathtub, her lifeless writs sliced. The still water in the bathtub was dark red. A CD player sat next to the tub, still playing the same song, on a loop. Observing the scene, the color drained out of Chuck's face. He ran off, alone, and vomited into the flower bushes outside the simple ranch home. Sarah came up to him, and voicelessly embraced him. Chuck mumbled silently in Latin.

* * *

The entire ride back, no one said a word. Once they returned to the Ecco Park several hours later, they walked quietly into to Casey-Bartowski apartment. Chuck and Sarah grabbed places on the couch, while Sarah tenderly massaged his hands. By then, the Latin flash had faded, but Chuck just stared into space, emptily. He kept his silence.

Casey went to his cabinet, grabbed a bottle of bourbon and poured three generous portions into green tumblers. He returned, and passed one to both Chuck and Sarah. Casey sat down, then wordlessly lifted his glass. Chuck acknowledged the toast in kind. And they all imbibed. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

Casey stood up and went to answer it. He opened the door, to see Roan Montgomery standing outside, holding three bottles: a Johnnie Walker Black, a Jack Daniels, and a Jim Beam.

"I hope I'm not intruding," Roan stated, rhetorically. "I heard about what happened. Being a religious man myself, I thought we could all take counsel in the three wise men."

"Come on in," Casey responded, waiving him in, "you can grab yourself a glass."

Roan walked in, and grabbed an extra tumbler on Casey's kitchen ledge. He opened the Johnnie Walker Black and poured himself three ounces, then passed the bottle around. Everyone poured heartily.

Roan lifted his glance. "To the ends always justifying the means," he toasted sarcastically.

Casey acknowledged him. "Here, here," and drank his fill. Chuck and Sarah soon followed.

Casey raised his glass again. "Another spy lesson for you, Bartowski. When things go south with an asset. . .Jonnie Walker. Black."

Just then, Chuck's phone chimed. "A text from Walt," Chuck commented. He read the text out loud, slightly slurring his words. "Congrats on a job well done. $40 million in Ring assets traced and seized." Chuck downed a large gulp of whiskey.

"Asshat," Sarah exclaimed, bursting into drunken, sorrowful, giggles.

"He saved your life," Chuck noted.

"So he's an asshat with a sniper rifle." She quipped.

"He's only the Deputy Asshat," Chuck answered, again slurring his words. "To the Deputy Asshat, and his General, the General of Asshattery!" Chuck stood up, slightly unbalanced, and made the toast.

"Now there's something I can drink to," Sarah commented, then swallowed.

The team, Roan included, spent the next few hours drinking and providing solace to each other, in honor, in memory, of the human costs of achieving the greater good.

* * *

Three hours later, Roan left the comfort of the Casey-Bartowski apartment and returned to his house in Palm Springs. Once safely inside, he opened up a secure link to the Ring Chair, whose image soon graced his computer screen. She smiled at him. It was a serious smile, but a smile nevertheless. Her manner, her appearance, remained poised, polished, professional. Her auburn-brown hair, with streaks of gray, dangled just so slightly around her face. Ruby-red lipstick graced her face, complimenting her green eyes.

She addressed him. "Revered Delegate, I trust that everything went as planned."

Roan nodded back, forcing a smile. "It did. The Ladino song was a nice added touch. Almost had me believing it was a suicide."

The Ring Chair sprouted a mischievous expression. "Well, we always strive to be culturally sensitive with our executions."

Roan grimaced. "And the brother?"

The Ring Chair's expression faded, but her tone remained playful. "He will not last more than a few days. The poor thing when he heard about his sister. . . he hung himself. Or, he will, anyway."

Roan bit his lip. "A hanging?"

The Ring Chair smiled back at him. "Of course. What could be more culturally appropriate for a Judas?"

Roan paused for a bit, his tone was cautious, careful. "Tell me. All this bloodshed. Is it really necessary?"

The Ring Chair's voice dropped. "Come now, Revered Delegate. We merely followed your wishes."

"My wishes?" Roan asked.

The Ring Chair responded slyly. "Certainly. You requested that we shift into an active protection mode for Mr. Bartowski. I agreed with your analysis. It took some convincing, but so did the Chamber. The Benvenistes learned Mr. Bartowksi's secret, or enough of it anyway. Their continued existence represented a threat to your Asset. We eliminated that threat. Even the cost of one of our better money managers. No matter, we have 200 others who are almost as good."

Roan nodded, somberly. He broke eye contact, and glanced at the floor. "I see," he remarked. "And the money?," he asked.

The Ring Chair smirked. "We managed to transfer virtually all of it out. When the CIA digs deeper, they'll find nothing but IOUs."

Roan's eyes stayed mostly on the floor. "Well, that's something, I guess."

The Ring Chair noticed his changed mood. "Revered Delegate, have you grown soft?"

Roan nodded, "Maybe, maybe."

The Ring Chair responded, almost sorrowfully. "Then there might be hope for your soul yet. I only wish there was hope for my own. In that, I am envious of you."

* * *

A/N: Ladino, or Judeo-Espanol, is a language that derives mostly from 15th Century Spanish, with fragments from other Iberian languages, Hebrew, and Turkish mixed in. It was historically spoken by Sephardic Jews in Greece, Turkey, and the Balkans. A Ladino-speaking community emigrated to Mexico in the early part of the 20th Century.

A/N: I've noticed that reviews and, to a lesser extent, readership, have plummeted the past two chapters. There are a lot of great stories going on out there. If people aren't interested in seeing where this goes, or if this is too dark given the times (or too unevenly written), I get it. . . . If, however, you want it to continue, let me know. All I will say now is that the Ring has both a plan and very real goals, which should come as somewhat of a shock. . . and which will be revealed in due time. And, after this current chapter, the story gets a bit less dark. . .

Also, if someone could please post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook Group site, I'd appreciate it.


	11. Chuck vs The Offer You Can't Refuse

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

_Previous in Chuck v. The End of History_

_Chapter 5_

_Walt: "For the record, the first rule of being a spy, is DON'T LOOK LIKE A GOD-DAMN SPY."_

_Chapter 10_

_Joseph: __"The Ring . . . . It is far more integrated into the halls of power than you can possibly imagine."_

* * *

Roan sat in the empty movie theater. McLintock!, an old John Wayne movie, was playing on the screen. Not a single other soul attended the 10:30 a.m. matinee that Tuesday morning. The seats were dark, barren. That was the idea. The theater was a front. A Ring meeting place, and an occasional base of operations. Sitting there, Roan habitually checked his watch. The seconds moved slowly. His contact, the Mule, was running late for their scheduled meeting.

Eventually, seven frustratingly long minutes later, the Mule sat down next to him. The Mule looked tired, haggard. He was in his late-40s, but looked older. A fading hair dye revealed that his thin golden hair was now mostly gray. An old sweatshirt draped sloppily over the Mule's body, wrapping around his beer belly.

"You're late." Roan said, irritated.

The Mule took a lengthy sip from the straw that emerged from his oversized, 40 oz movie theater soda. "Sorry, traffic was awful. I'm surprised you wanted to meet. My assignment with Bartowski ended months ago."

"I know," Roan acknowledged. "You're here for me, more than him. I wanted to speak with someone who worked with him, who knew him."

The Mule's expression turned perplexed. "Why?" The Mule nosily slurped up more soda from his straw.

Roan nodded. "Guilt. What we've done to him. What we're about to do."

The Mule glanced at Roan, and then turned back towards the screen. "I cannot help. My mission was simple. Watch, observe, don't interfere, don't break cover. Periodically report back to the Chamber on the Son of Orion. Almost seven damn years, that assignment . . . and I didn't do anything that threatened my conscience." The Mule pondered a few seconds. "Except for the behavior of my cover personality, of course."

Roan looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

The Mule explained: "The disgusting behavior towards women. The toxic substances I imbibed."

Roan nodded. "Ahh, yes. . . Understood."

The Mule thought a bit more. "But there were times. . . times when he was in danger. Times when I wished I could help. Break cover. Assist him. His personality, his goodness . . . it's so damn _infectious_, you know?"

Roan's face remained transfixed on the screen. But he grasped what the Mule was saying. He felt it too. "I know, I know. The two of us . . . we may be the only two Links in the Ring who really know the man. At least, who _he is now_. It's why I like talking to you so much. It's why I miss our chats."

The Mule looked at his watch. He had another appointment in about ten minutes, involving his current Ring assignment. "Sorry, I've got to go. But perhaps same time next month?" He got up from his chair, and extended his hand to Roan.

Roan cracked half-a-smile as he grasped and shook the Mule's hand. "Next month? Or to the End of History, Mr. Barnes?"

"To the End of History," Jeffrey Barnes replied heartily, as he turned his back on Roan, and left the empty theatre.

* * *

Chuck stared up at the ceiling. He watched as the ceiling fan spun around-and-around. "Failure," he thought to himself. In his regular life, failure had been his long-time mistress. Their torrid affair lasted for five years after Stanford and, romantically, for two years longer. In his spy-life, she had been blissfully absent. Sure, he'd had screwups and setbacks on missions. But everything always turned out alright in the end, whether through some amazing bit of ingenuity or just dumb luck. Not this time. The mission to San Diego was over. And it was a failure on every level.

It had been two weeks since Gracia died. It had been almost two weeks since Joseph had joined her. No, Chuck thought, died is the wrong word. It had been two weeks since Gracia killed herself, and almost two weeks since Joseph followed suit. Because of him. Because of what he, and his team, did to them. In his mind, he had promised to protect them. To save them from the Ring. True, his mouth, his words, had never conveyed that promise audibly. But he betrayed his intended promise nevertheless.

And for what? By the time the NSA finished unravelling the maze of Ring shell companies, it succeeded in recovering just $41,307.43. Three weeks, two dead bodies, and a small fortune in expenses succeeded in denying the Ring the purchase of one luxury SUV? If even a fraction of what Joseph said was true, that loss wouldn't make dent in the Ring's finances or operations. But most importantly, two good people were now dead. Chuck kept his mind focused on the spinning fan.

Walt's voice interrupted him. "Am I boring you, Captain Bartowski?"

Chuck stammered. "Whaa?"

Walt reminded him. "We were discussing the Ring. It's goals, what it wants."

"Oh," Chuck responded, distantly. His thoughts remained on Gracia and Joseph.

"Isn't it obvious?" Casey interjected.

Walt looked at him coldly, gesturing to the PowerPoint presentation he had projected onto Castle's screen. "Enlighten us, Lt. Col. Casey," he said, stressing the "Lt."

Casey emitted a mild groan. "Like all bad guys, they want power, money, or some combination of the two."

Walt's face turned curious. "Do they? Their agent, Bel Riose, he killed himself rather than be captured. Nobody commits suicide for power, or for money. It's self-defeating."

"What then?" Sarah inquired.

Walt paced the room. He clicked a button on this phone, and the PowerPoint presentation soon depicted the faces of fourteen known Ring agents who had been killed or captured over the past six months. He spoke. "I think the answer to the mystery lies with Bel Riose's dying words. The End of History."

Casey proffered a guess. "Some kind of doomsday cult? Maybe a bunch of religious whack jobs?"

Walt turned towards Casey and shook his head. "Possible, but unlikely. Miles, the man who betrayed you, what was his faith?"

Casey stumbled a bit. "I don't really know. I think he was a lapsed Catholic."

Walt pointed at the screen. "Take a look at the other Ring agents we've identified. Three Episcopalians, two Catholics, two Presbyterians, one Quaker, two Buddhists, a Shiite Muslim, a Conservative Jew, and three individuals without any kind of spiritual identification whatsoever. If faith is the motive, the Ring would be the most ecumenical and tolerant group of religious terrorists I've ever seen."

Walt pointed to John Eddington, one of the dead Ring operatives from the Intersect room. "Although you've got to watch out for those radical Episcopalians. You never know when they'll place explosives in your underwear to settle doctrinal disputes about the validity of Henry VIII's marriage to Anne Boleyn."

Casey grunted an acknowledgment.

Walt opened the issue up to the floor. "So, theories?"

Sarah's expression grew stern, serious. She spoke: "Politics. People will kill for politics. The Communists were godless. Most of the Nazis were too. But the true believers, they died, they killed. . . to advance their goals. For what they believed, however wrongly, would be a better world."

Walt signaled his agreement. "It fits. What do we know about the Ring? Chuck?"

Chuck, staring blankly at the wall, ignored him. His eyes looked vacant, adrift.

Sarah noticed and covered for him. "It started as an organization of dissident Warsaw Bloc spies, opposed to Communism."

"Fulcrum was part of the Ring," Casey added.

Walt pressed the issue. "And what did Fulcrum want?"

Casey responded grumpily. "We never got a firm answer. Some pseudo-patriotic gibberish about winning the next war. Real American heroes they were." The sarcasm dripped thickly from his last few words.

Walt nodded again. "So let's put everything together. We know the Ring is anti-Communist. We know they sponsored a hawkish faction of the CIA. And we know that they are willing to die for their beliefs."

Casey laughed. "Sounds like we know two things: jack and squat. Communism's dead. Reagan killed it, and Thatcher fed the remains to her dogs. All the Commies have left is a few assholes in Costa Gravas. They aren't a threat to anyone but their own people in that island shithole. And why would some kind of global spy ring support a bunch of hyper-nationalist patriotic pretenders? Why would they give a damn about whether the U.S. won the next war?"

Chuck, finally catching a few words of the conversation, piped in quietly. "There's another possibility."

"Go on," Walt prodded.

Chuck explained. "Joseph, he was Ring. But not by choice. He made a bad decision. And the Ring kept swinging that decision over his head like the Sword of Damocles. To control him." He shot Walt a cold stare. "How do we know that the entire Ring isn't like that? Like some kind of grand pyramid scheme? Or a spy mafia, where all the soldiers are indebted through favors, through _mistakes_, up the chain-of-command to a few masters in charge. For all we know, most of the Ring could be both agents and victims, simultaneously."

Walt cracked a smile. "You raise an interesting possibility, Captain Bartowski. On that note, I've invited a special guest to today's meeting."

Walt pressed a button on his phone, and the PowerPoint presentation vanished from Castle's screen. In its place stood a smiling video of Stephen Bartowski, tinkering with an open computer. He was wearing green protective goggles, and his disheveled hair swayed from side-to-side.

"Hello son," Stephen said.

Chuck perked up. "Dad?"

Stephen smiled warmly. "I have some good news. Or, at least I think it's good news. I think I've figured out kinks in the Intersect. I should be able to iron out the remaining bugs within a week or so."

Chuck's mouth stood agape. "So . . . no more passing out, no more Latin?"

Stephen chuckled. "Not unless you need to go undercover as a professor of dead languages."

Stephen's smile faded a bit. His eyes grew sad, reluctant. "But, son. . . before I do this, think about whether this is truly what you want. The bugs . . . they've put you at risk . . . but they've also mostly kept you safe, behind a desk. You've only been in the line of fire once since you got back to Burbank. I heard about your last mission, and how it ended. If you do this, if you download a clean Intersect . . . there's no going back."

Walt cut him off. "That's enough."

Walt pressed a button on the phone, and switched Castle's monitor off.

Walt turned towards Chuck, and flashed a charming yet regretful grin. "Your father is right, of course. I can't force you to download the new Intersect. But I can tell you that there's already no going back. The Ring knows about you . . . about your capabilities. This last mission made that clear. If you don't do this, if you don't stay an Agent . . . we'll likely need to move you to protective custody."

Chuck rested his head on his elbows, which in turn rested on the table. From the corner of his mouth, he mumbled. "A bunker?"

Walt nodded back at him, his tone filled with compassion. "I'm afraid so. For your own safety."

Sarah quickly interrupted. "If he goes, I go with him."

Walt grinned at her. "No doubt you would." He walked over to Chuck and began to rub Chuck's shoulders. "But Chuck, what kind of life would that be for her? Your girlfriend is a bright, vivacious woman, and a hell of an agent. . . . would you really trap her in a cozy two bed . . . _one _bed cell, deep underground?"

Chuck and Sarah both looked at him curiously. Walt sneered. "I watched the video."

Sarah shot Walt a wicked glare. "I'll adjust."

Walt kept rubbing Chuck's shoulders. He bent down and loudly whispered in Chuck's ear, purposefully vocalizing so that Sarah could hear. "No doubt she would. And isn't that what you want for her? To _adjust _to living in a cell? To spending the next 40 years diligently by your side, in a 600 square foot secure room? Over time, she'll come to resent you . . . to hate you."

"I won't," Sarah declared defiantly.

Walt padded Chuck on the back. "Are you really willing to take that risk Chuck? And even if you two remain very much in love, is that the kind of life you want to give her? To give yourself? Think it over. I'm confident you'll make the right decision."

Walt turned his back on Chuck, then walked away from him, grinning. He reached the hat rack which abutted the stairs leading up to Castle's exit. He grabbed his gray fedora, placed it on his head, and walked up the steps. As he climbed the stairs, the team could audibly hear him humming the melody to "Secret Agent Man," by Johnny Rivers.

Chuck picked his head up to watch Walt leave the base. Then he lowered it, softly, back onto his elbows, resting it again on the table. His expression again turned blank, vacant. A single tear emerged from his eye, and he began to sob, softly.

Sarah rested her head upon his, trying to soothe him. As she did, her eyes fixated themselves on the closed Castle doors that Walt had recently exited. The blue iciness within them faded away. As it did, Sarah's eyes began to burn with the fury of a thousand suns.

"I'm going to kill him," she muttered.

Casey turned towards her apprehensively. "Metaphorically, you mean?"

Sarah's nostrils flared. She responded to Casey with an ambiguous smirk.

"Maybe."

* * *

A/N 1: So we're 11 chapters in. Who do you think is the better antagonist? Walt or Shaw? Or Roan?

A/N 2: The Jeff Barnes reveal goes back to my original outline for this story. I was debating whom to reveal as the Ring agent at the end of Chapter 1 - him or Roan. I went with Roan because Roan seemed to fit easier into the story as a whole. But Jeff still has a role to play. There is also a major twist coming up around Chapter 13/14 or so.

A/N 3: I am trying to make sure I update somewhat regularly (weekly, hopefully). That might mean somewhat shorter chapters. Please keep reviewing . . . let me know that people actually like this story and want it to continue. It's dark right now (and remains somewhat dark), but you know what they say . . . it's always darkest before the dawn. Or maybe it's always darkest before it's pitch black.

Also, if someone could post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook page, I'd appreciate it.


	12. Chuck vs The Red Test

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

Chuck's Bedroom. Apartamente de Casey y Chuck

Chuck lied flat on his back in bed. His body was wrapped firmly underneath the covers. His eyes were open but empty, staring up at the ceiling. His skin looked pale white, as if drained of all life, all emotion.

He heard a knock on the door. "You've got a visitor," Casey's voice declared.

Chuck didn't answer. His non-responsive gaze at the ceiling continued

"Hi Chuck," Ellie said, walking in with a box of cheese balls. "I brought you your favorite." She smiled and shook the box.

Chuck didn't move a muscle to look at her. He acknowledged her presence only with a simple "hi," while still staring upward.

Ellie sat on the chair next to him. "Chuck, what's wrong."

"Nothing," Chuck mumbled.

Ellie put her hand on his head, as if checking for a temperature. "Chuck, these past few weeks, since you got back from San Diego, you've been . . . _gone_. It's like after Stanford, but worse. What happened?"

"Nothing." Chuck repeated.

Ellie prodded him. "Is it you and Sarah? I know about her, um, _sexual deviancy_."

Chuck finally cranked his neck to look at her, and shot her a bewildered expression. "Huh?"

Ellie poked the bear. "The _other woman_, _in San Diego_. Sarah told me that she likes to _watch_, makes you pick up floozies for her enjoyment, her _perverted pleasure_."

Chuck captured the gist. Sarah had mentioned what she told Ellie and Devon during their unfortunate random encounter. Another lie, Chuck thought, to cover up his profession of lying. Then his mind wandered. Ellie's reference to San Diego flooded back memories of Gracia. And how he failed her. And that only circled back to the lies. How he still couldn't tell Ellie the truth, which led her to thinking the worst. No, that's not right. The worst is what he was, what he had tried to become. Not the ridiculous yarn Sarah had spun for her. Quickly, he tried to suppress his rising self-hate.

"What? No. Sarah and I are great."

Ellie bit her lip. "I see . . . Chuck, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

Chuck turned his head back, and resumed his gaze at the ceiling. "I know, sis." He cursed himself under his breath. What could he really tell her? That he was part of a CIA-NSA task force? That two good people were dead because of him, his team? That his boss was blackmailing him, enslaving him, into downloading an even more effective version of the program that got him into this mess to begin with? No, Chuck thought. Staring at the ceiling was much easier, much safer. It's not like he had the willpower to get out of bed today anyway.

Ellie bent over and kissed him on the forehead. "When you're ready to talk, I'm here."

She got up from the chair and left the room. Closing the door behind her, she approached Casey, who was sitting at his desk, pruning his bonsai tree. "John, what's wrong with my brother."

Casey didn't turn to look at her. "The kid's had a rough couple of days. The job in San Diego went a little south. That's all. He's tough, your brother. He'll bounce back."

"Him and Sarah?" Ellie asked.

Casey shook his head. "Nah, they're solid. It's other stuff."

* * *

Castle

Three days later, Chuck managed to pull himself out of bed, in order to attend a team meeting within Castle. The team sat around the conference table.

Walt started the presentation. "Chuck, as you know, the corrected Intersect should be ready for download soon. You still haven't given me your answer about whether you'll be downloading it."

"Still thinking," Chuck answered quietly.

Walt continued. "Very well. Take your time. The reception desk at Hotel Underground Bunker will let you check-in anytime . . . That sad, I've always been honest with you. I want you to know what you're getting into . . . this is your next mission."

Walt clicked a button on his phone, and an image of a smiling elderly Asian man with thick glasses appeared on the screen. "This is Dr. Duc Phan."

Sarah's eyes perked up. "The Cambodian Mengele? The Mass Murdering Medic?"

Walt nodded. "The same. During the Khmer Rouge regime's rule in the 1970s, he conducted gruesome medical experiments on political prisoners. Awful stuff. Like surgically removing someone's liver to see how long a human can last without one. He's got the blood of over 1,700 people on his hands."

Walt pressed a button, and images of mangled corpses appeared on the screen. "Just a few of the good doctor's victims."

Chuck felt ill. He shied away from the screen. "What's this got to do with me?"

Walt looked at him sternly. "I want you to kill him, Chuck."

"YOU'RE GIVING HIM A RED TEST? Are you INSANE?" Sarah exclaimed irately.

Walt nodded affirmatively.

"What's a Red Test," Chuck asked.

Casey emitted a Grunt No. 3. "It's not an actual test. It's an expression, a euphemism. It refers to the first time an agent is forced to take a life in the line of duty. We call it the agent's 'Red Test.' Most agents never take the 'test." They go their entire careers without killing anyone. We're intelligence gatherers, not assassins. Well, myself and present company excluded, that is." Casey nudged at Sarah, who frowned. Casey then continued. "I've never heard of an agent being given an _actual _Red Test. Until now, that is. I thought the concept was relegated to bad spy fiction."

Walt interjected. "Usually, you'd be right. But this is a special case."

Casey glanced at Chuck. "Heh, he thinks you're 'special.'"

Flummoxed, Chuck posed the question. "I don't understand. Why me? Why now?"

Walt pressed a button. Surveillance footage from the San Diego park played on Castle's monitor.

"San Diego, that's why," Walt explained, gesturing to the monitor. On the screen, video played of Chuck holding the gun at Bel Riose, while the Ring agent held a knife to Sarah's neck. "Agent Walker was in danger. You had the shot, you didn't take it."

"I PASSED OUT," Chuck protested, "from the damn buggy Intersect."

Walt's tone grew stern. "You had the shot long before you passed out. You hesitated. That hesitation could have cost Agent Walker her life."

"But it didn't," Sarah added.

"Yes," Walt retorted. "Because I made a more difficult shot from a sniping position."

Walt sat down, and placed elbows on the table. "Chuck, you're not always going to have back-up to do the dirty work for you. If you're not able to take a life out in the field, you're a liability. That's why I requested this mission."

"You requested it?" Sarah asked indignantly.

Walt raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Kind of. The Cambodian government put in the request. From his exile in Bolivia, Dr. Phan has been meeting with Khmer remnants and organizing guerrilla attacks against the legitimate Cambodian government. The Cambodians want him dead, but they don't have the global reach to eliminate him. So they asked us for a favor. When I heard about the assignment, I volunteered Chuck."

"Why him?" Casey asked.

Walt smiled again. "Because an agent's first kill is always the hardest. Once you pull the trigger once, it becomes a lot easier the next time. And if there's anyone who deserves death on the planet, it's this mass-murdering asshole. Framed differently, Chuck, if you can't kill the Cambodian Mengele, how are you ever going to survive in the field?"

Sarah's eyes stood firm, narrow, fierce. "You said no illegal orders."

"And I meant it." Walt responded. He pulled out a piece of paper from a drawer under the conference table. "This is a kill order signed by the President, as authored by the 9/11 joint resolution. This is black ops, but it's completely above-the-board. We'll be sending out the invitations when we arrange Dr. Phan's wedding to 72 virgins."

"He's not Muslim, just another godless Commie." Casey clarified.

"Whatever," Walt retorted. "With that, dismissed. Except for Agent Walker."

Chuck slowly got up and, half-ossified, made his way towards the exit. Casey joined him. Once they left Castle's premises, Walt's expression turned cold.

"Sit down, Agent Walker. Explain yourself."

"I don't know what you mean," Sarah responded.

Walt crossed his arms, and raised his voice. "Don't bullshit me. I told you to handle the Asset. To keep him happy, productive – and compliant with my orders. Instead, you fought with me in there. Not only that, but your Asset is meandering about like a fucking zombie. Worse, a useless zombie. He hasn't flashed since San Diego – not even on the Mass Murdering Medic. The amount of data we have on him should have triggered a major one."

Sarah blew up at him, waving her arms chaotically. "Have you ever considered that it's your fault? You're the ass who told him to seduce and betray an innocent – a mission that got both her and her brother killed. You're the SOB trying to blackmail him into downloading a new-and-improved Intersect. And you're the one who's now trying to turn him into a killer. What the hell are you expecting me to do? Do you think I possess a magical vagina that queefs happiness?"

Walt barked back at her. "That's a hell of a way to talk to your superior."

Not backing down, Sarah pressed. "I'm just doing my duty, Sir. You made it clear that you didn't want Chuck bitter, resentful, and terrified of the United States government. Didn't you say that that's how burnouts and traitors are created? Well what do you think you're doing? Chuck's a good man. The best man that I've ever met. You can't force him to betray his moral compass, bludgeon him with threats and guilt, and wind up with anything other than the distant shell he's turning into. No wonder he isn't flashing."

Incensed, Walt's face tensed up. Then he took a deep breath, and the visible anger dissipated. He sat down. "You're right," he confessed.

"I am?" Sarah responded, surprised over Walt's reaction.

Walt put his feet up on the conference table and crossed his legs. He leaned back on the seat and rested his head on his outstretched hands behind him.

"Let me explain what I've been trying to do. I've been trying to break Chuck. Not to keep him broken, but to rebuild him, as an Agent. You went through that process, I presume?"

Sarah nodded softly.

"I thought so," Walt replied. His tone was now calm, collected. "The thing is, usually it takes years. We don't have that luxury. His unique capabilities, they are too valuable. And the Ring is too imminent a threat. So I've been trying to compress the process. But he's human and, you're right, a good man. Perhaps I've been pushing him to far, too fast. I was hoping you could keep him grounded, keep him happy, _entertained_. But, evidently, I asked too much of you."

Walt's tone on his last few words simmered with disappointment. But Sarah smiled internally. She pondered why, and quickly realized the answer: Chuck was staying Chuck, goodness and all. And he was just too damn good a person to be happy in light of San Diego or Walt's threats, even though they were finally together.

"So you'll back off on the corrected Intersect? On the Red Test?" Sarah asked.

Walt shook his head. "No. We need the Intersect working. And not only for the mission. What if Chuck goes off on some random guy who gets in his face, like he did back in that Virginia bar? He's getting the download his father prepared. Same thing with the Red Test. We need Chuck to be willing to kill if the mission requires it. The Red Test is the best way to break down his mental barriers, banish that useless conscience of his."

Sarah crossed her arms indignantly. "But you said I was right."

Walt smiled back at her. "You were. That doesn't mean the plan changes. It just means we've got to find some other way to lift his spirits. Give him something else to fall back on, besides your romantic interludes."

Walt pondered for a bit. Then a small, mischievous grin appeared on his face. "And I think I know just the thing. Dismissed, Agent Walker."

Sarah left Castle, pissed as hell. Walt seemed intent on destroying Chuck's Chuckiness. And she didn't know how to stop him. Nor did she know what was coming next.

After Sarah left, Walt flipped on Castle's monitor. The stern image of General Beckman graced the screen.

"Report," she said, matter-of-factly.

Walt grimaced. "I think he'll do it. Both the download and the Red Test. But I'm going to need something from you in return. And you won't like it."

The General raised her eyebrow in curiosity.

* * *

Living Room. Apartamente de Casey y Chuck

Chuck paced back-and-forth in the Casey/Bartwoski living room. Sarah stood, resting herself against a wall. Casey sat in his large recliner.

"Chuck, you don't have to do this" Sarah pleaded.

"Yes, I do. You heard him. I take the download, or he locks me in a bunker. I kill, or . . . I don't know. Some other evil thing happens to me that he pulls from his book of 'cartoon bad guy' antics."

"He's bluffing. He told me weeks ago that Beckman and Graham could have never kept you locked up in a bunker for long. That you're an American, with rights," Sarah retorted.

Chuck stopped his pacing. "When did he tell you that?"

Sarah felt a wave of unease crest over her. She bit her lip. "Before we got the San Diego mission. When he . . . when he told me to handle you."

"HE TOLD YOU WHAT?" Chuck said, raising his voice. "So everything, between us, it's been fak. . ."

"No, no, no," Sarah answered, almost pleading with him to believe her. She took a deep breath and came clean. "About a month after we got together, Walt told me the truth. He's been manipulating us from the beginning. He conned me just as badly as he did you. He approved our relationship in order to leverage it against both of us. . ."

A small glimmer of understanding appeared on Chuck's face. "Like when he threatened to send both of us to the bunker, together."

Sarah nodded affirmatively. "Before San Diego, he told me to convince you to go through with it, the seduction. He said that if I didn't, he'd have me reassigned, and that whoever would replace me would get you killed. I panicked. I didn't see a way out. So I buried my soul and did it. He tried to pull the same thing with the Red Test, but I wouldn't do it . . . I couldn't."

Casey grunted. "Quite a mess you two love birds made. Now I've got to vomit." He got up from his chair and left the room.

Chuck began pacing the room again, putting his hands on his forehead.

"Are you mad at me?" Sarah asked.

Chuck's pace quickened. "No, not at you. I've been a spy, kinda, long enough that I get it. You were trying to protect me, weren't you?"

Sarah gave a hint of a nod.

"That's not why I'm nervous," Chuck explained. "I'm trying to figure a way forward, a way out of this."

Sarah bit her lip again. "We could run. I have money, resources. They wouldn't find us."

Chuck discounted the idea. "No. I'm not running. Even if we could pull it off . . . what about Ellie?"

"You'd miss her too much, right?" Sarah asked.

Chuck jerked his head a little bit. "No . . . well, um, yes . . . but that's not where I was going. Walt, he's a bastard. Roan told me as much, and he was right. If we run, how do we know that he won't use Ellie against us, hold her as a hostage?"

Sarah contemplated the prospect. She shuddered. Chuck had a point. "So what then?"

"I do it," Chuck answered. "I don't see another way out. What I've got in my head now, it's dangerous. To me. To those around me. How do you know that I won't flash and pass out while driving? Or accidentally kill a guy trying to buy groceries? Besides, Sarah . . . the Ring, _it killed my mom_."

Chuck placed his hands on his temples. "They took her away from me. Away from Ellie. If getting this _thing _in my head right helps me defeat them, don't I have a responsibility to go through with it? With great power comes great responsibility and all that?"

Sarah tried to lighten the mood. "Quoting Marvel, really? I thought you were a D.C. guy?"

Chuck just stared at her, causing her to tense.

"Sorry, Chuck. Bad joke. That doesn't mean you have to do the Red Test."

Chuck stopped pacing. "I know. And I don't want to do it. I don't know if I _can _do it, or what it will do it me. I just don't see another way. To stay on the team. To make sure that I have the stones to _protect_ you and Casey."

Sarah smirked a bit. She approached and kissed softly him on the cheek. "Chuck, it's still my job to protect you. And you've always found another way."

Chuck's voice dropped. "I know. But maybe not this time," he expressed humbly, almost defeatedly.

She squeezed his cheeks and kissed him softly on the lips. "Just remember: once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny."

Chuck smiled at her. "I'm going to turn you into a nerd yet."

She approached him and hugged him tightly. "Chuck, we'll find another way. Trust me, ok?"

* * *

Over the next few days, Sarah tried frantically to get in touch with Orion. Maybe he could do something, she mused. She called in favors, used her contacts at HQ. But to no avail. The CIA was keeping him closely under wraps. Probably so that it could control him the way Walt was trying to control Chuck. Perhaps worse. She remembered how Walt curtly disconnected the last communication they with Orion. And she realized that Chuck had barely had any contact with his father since they left the Farm. _"They've keeping him a prisoner_," she speculated to herself. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, she scrolled through her remaining contacts, until an intriguing name came to light. She smiled. It was a long shot, but worth it.

Three days later, the Intersect upload arrived. Chuck sat in Castle, the sunglasses on the table before him. Chuck stared at them. "Such a deceptively simple device," he though. "Such a powerful weapon."

Sarah rested her hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this," she reminded him.

Chuck put his hand on hers, and gave it a light squeeze. "Yes, I do," he responded in a barely audible tone.

He grasped the sunglasses and put them on willingly. Millions of images flashed rapidly before his eyes. He passed out.

Four hours later, he awoke. He felt different. Lighter. Sarah quizzed him in Italian. He answered, in Italian. Five seconds later, he asked Walt for permission to use the potty. In English. That night, the core team went to karaoke. Chuck flashed repeatedly throughout the night whenever he took the stage, switching genres, without problems. The next day, Walt, Casey and Sarah escorted Chuck to the Los Alamitos Joint Forces Training Base. Using flashes, Chuck quickly mastered a variety of weapons, from handguns, to sniper rifles, to knives. He handled everything flawlessly.

"You're ready," Walt said, his face glimmering. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ticket to Santa Cruz, Bolivia. "This is where Dr. Phan is hiding out. Fly down there. Take care of him. Fly back."

Chuck nodded, hesitantly. Sarah gripped his hand.

"Oh, and one more thing," Walt quipped, starting at their interconnected hands. "No baggage." Chuck and Sarah got the message and untangled their fingers.

* * *

Three hours later, Chuck was on a flight, alone, commercial, to La Paz, Bolivia, for transfer to a flight to Santa Cruz. He sat in seat 23B. As he uncomfortably squeezed into the middle seat, he mused about how, in his imagination, secret agents would get to fly around the world private jets. Or at least relax in first class. No such luck. As Walt had reminded him on several occasions, the point of being a spy is to _not _be noticed. So here he was, by himself, on a seven-and-a-half-hour flight. So that he could have a three hour stop over. So that he could board another flight. So that he could undertake his first solo mission. So that he could kill a man. Chuck shuddered. He tried to watch the in-flight entertainment. It was a collection of sitcom reruns. The more he watched, the more his mind focused on the task that awaited him. He could feel his skin turn green.

Two days later, he sat on the terrace of his hotel room in Santa Cruz, sipping mate de coca. It was legal down there, and Chuck had always wanted to try it. The trace amounts of cocaine in the tea perked him up a bit. Like a half-a-cup of coffee. But his mind remained despondent, obsessed, with his mission ahead. He heard a knock on the door. He went and answered it. It was his contact from the American Consular office. A slender man out of central casting: dark navy suit, white shirt, navy tie, medium-fit build, seemingly of mixed Native American and Caucasian ancestry. The man put a briefcase down on the hotel bed, and opened it. Inside was a disassembled sniper rifle.

"Dr. Phan lives at this address," the contact stated, handing Chuck a small piece of paper. "There's an office building about 700 meters away, here," the contact said, pointing to a map he pulled up on his phone. "We've arranged to get you access to the roof from 9:00 p.m. onward. You should have a clean line of slight, a clean shot, into Dr. Phan's house and backyard. Take it. Leave the rifle. Exit the building. There will be a red Toyota Corolla awaiting you across the street. Get in. Drive to Sucre. Don't stop, except for food, gas, or to use the bathroom. You should be able to make a commercial flight tomorrow afternoon to Santiago, Chile. From there, you'll return to Los Angeles."

Chuck nodded the entire time, not saying a word. His contact spoke plainly, without emotion or emphasis. He might as well have been providing instructions on how to assemble a piece of Ikea furniture. The entire experience was _banal_. "The banality of spy work," Chuck thought. "The art of transforming murder into a series of detailed instructions."

He thanked his contact, shook his hand, and escorted him out of the room. He flopped back on the bed and looked at his watch. It was 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon. Another five hours to kill. Another five hours before the kill. For some reason, his mind wandered to the stages of grief. Had he really passed denial, anger, and bargaining so quickly? And had he reached acceptance? Or was this still depression? Chuck didn't know. He thought of calling Sarah, calling Casey. He decided against it. He didn't want to be reminded of the spy life now. He decided to take a walk and see the town.

Five and a half hours later, Chuck entered the roof of the Palacio de Justica. Ironic, he thought. His contact had directed him to the building which housed the Justice Department for the Santa Cruz department. And here he was to exact justice, in a way. Just outside the law. No, that wasn't right, Chuck thought. The President had authorized this. His contact had explained the choice of location: not only was the building one of the tallest in Santa Cruz, but the CIA had contacts in the Bolivian Justice Department who would look the other way. The entire operation had the silent blessing of the Bolivian government. They didn't want Dr. Phan in their country, they just didn't care to take steps to remove him. This wasn't outside the law. He, Charles Bartowski, was the law.

Chuck put down the briefcase, opened it, and assembled the sniper rifle. He rested it on the roof's guardrails and looked through the viewer towards Dr. Phan's house. There he was. Dr. Phan. He was a short man, in his mid-70s, with thick rimmed glasses and a mild hump on his back. He was sitting in his backyard on a lawn chair, smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of what appeared to be lemonade. He was smiling slightly, reading a newspaper. From the sight of it, Chuck thought, no one would have any idea that this docile old man spent four years of the 1970s butchering children. Or, for that matter, that he spent his dotage meeting with Khmer guerillas to plan terrorist attacks.

Chuck's mind fluttered back-and-forth about whether to go through with it. He flashed. Not an Intersect flash. A memory flash. Back to 11th grade English. Hamlet. "Is 't not perfect conscience, to quit him with this arm? And is 't not to be damned, to let this canker of our nature come in further evil?" Chuck pondered the prospect. To save others, could he damn himself a murderer and, by saving others, redeem his own damnation? Chuck closed his eyes and breathed in the paradox. "Just like Call of Duty," he thought. That's when the Intersect flash came. His mind flooded with images teaching him sniping skills. Unlike Call of Duty, it wasn't as simple as pulling the trigger. He needed to adjust for gravity, for the wind, for the ambient temperature and humidity – all of which would affect the bullet's course and trajectory at this distance. Swiftly, the Intersect made the requisite calculations in his head. Chuck focused in on the target and rested his hand on the trigger. He banished his inner Jiminy Cricket and resolved himself to do it.

Then he flashed again. But not like the skills flash. This was a different flash. Subtler. Strangely calming. Chuck started dancing. Tap dancing. And singing. In a terrible Cockney accent.

"_I'm Henry the eighth I am_

_Henry the eighth I am, I am_

_I got married to the widow next door_

_She's been married seven times before_

_And every one was an' Henry (Henry)_

_She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)_

_I'm her eighth old man, I'm Henry_

_Henry the eighth I am_

_Second verse same as the first_

_I'm Henry the eighth I am_

_Henry the eighth I am, I am . . ."_

Just then, he heard clapping. Chuck snapped out of it, and stopped dancing and singing. he turned around. Roan was there.

"Bravo! Quite a performance," Roan stated, smiling. "But I prefer the original by Peter Noone."

Chuck looked befuddled. "I . . . don't understand."

Roan's smile deepened. "Sarah. She managed to reach me. Told me about Walt's little mission for you. I, in turn, got a message to your father. It wasn't easy, but I pulled it off. Needless to say, he wasn't happy about the CIA turning his little boy into an assassin . . . even if your _first _intended victim deserves it mightily."

A sense of understanding dawned on Chuck. "He put in another bug."

"In a manner of speaking," Roan explained. "It's not like the other bugs. It doesn't affect your ability to access skills or information. Instead, it interferes with _intent_. Specifically, the intent to murder. You can still defend yourself, defend your partners. But you literally can't kill for them now . . . at least not in cold blood, not when it's unnecessary for self-defense. And no CIA or NSA threats to you or your loved ones can ever change that. I told you I was going to help you stay human, Charles. And I meant it."

"But the mission? Walt?" Chuck asked.

Roan grinned. "Walt can go fuck himself. The wanker. As for the mission . . . let's just say that there are a lot of people who want Dr. Phan dead. Go look through your sniper scope," Walt shot a glance at his watch, "right about fifteen seconds from now."

Chuck turned and peered through the gun. Two men were waiting outside Dr. Phan's house. One had just rung the doorbell. Dr. Phan got up from his lawn chair, entered the house, and opened the door. From his distance, Chuck couldn't hear anything. But he see the close-range shots happen almost immediately. Dr. Phan's body slumped to the floor, bleeding out on the entryway to his house.

Chuck then heard Roan's voice in the background.

"They'll ransack his house. Steal everything that's not nailed down. It will look like a common robbery of a wealthy expatriate. No one will be the wiser. Far more effective, far more _stealthy_, than your asinine assignment to blow the good doctor's head off with a sniper rifle. Now . . . I hear you have a flight to catch in Sucre. It's a long drive. Best get started."

* * *

Two days later, Chuck meandered off a plane from Santiago, Chile and into the Bob Hope Burbank Airport. No one was there to greet him. He checked his phone. A text from Sarah. "Come directly to Castle when you get in. Will explain when you get here."

Chuck's curiosity peaked. He grabbed his carry-on and hailed a cab. Thirty minutes later, he descended Castle's steps. Everyone was seated around the conference table, looking non-plussed. Except for Walt. He was grinning. Mischievously. Sarah and Casey looked at Chuck, then looked off, towards the left. Chuck's eyeballs followed their glare. The greeting came loud and merrily.

"Chuck, this is ABSO-FUCKING-LOOTELY AMAZING! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE A SPY. I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE GOING TO BE SPIES TOGETHER"

Chuck jerked his head. "Morgan?"

The little bearded man smiled back at him, his face filled with pure wonder.

"Surprise?" Sarah said, meekly, from the table.

* * *

Roan's Mansion, Palm Springs, California

"Report," the Ring Chair instructed Roan, calling out to him from a video conference on Roan's phone.

Roan beamed back at her. "It worked like a charm . . . the lengths that Orion will go to protect his son. And we have another dead Commie. Two birds, one stone." Roan smirked, visibly expressing his own self-pride in what he had pulled off. Realizing whom he was speaking with, he tried to cover up his visual display of joy, amusement, vanity.

The Ring Chair cheerfully gazed at him "Next steps?"

Roan collected himself. "The Intersect has largely been neutralized as an offensive weapon. Or, at least, as a _physical_ weapon. And, I trust, we now have what we need for the Little Child?"

The Ring Chair nodded affirmatively. "If your reports are accurate, yes."

Roan continued. "Well, in that case, I leave the timing of our Great Cause to the discretion of the Chamber, and to yourself, Madame Chair."

The Ring Chair smiled. "Good. I will assemble the Chamber. The appointed time has come. To the End of History!"

* * *

A/N #1: The story takes a pretty wild turn from here. A couple of really important chapters are coming up. If someone would like to volunteer to do a beta read, please PM me. Also, I would prefer to tell a few more mini-"spy mission" chapters but am running out of ideas. So this story may wrap up sooner than expected. If anyone has ideas for spy missions, send them to me.

A/N #2: I get the complaints about the tone. The story got kinda dark, darker than I expected it to. I am trying to course correct a bit but . . . there will be a couple of twists coming up. And some of them, though not all of them, are pretty dark.

A/N #3: So many great stories are getting published now that new chapters are getting pushed "down" pretty quickly. So if you know someone who you think you will like this, please share it. And if you miss a chapter . . . just go back and read!

A/N #4: A reviewer noted that "the methodology, namely guilt and shame, that was referenced as keeping Ring agents compliant was the same Walt repeatedly used and uses against Sarah and Chuck to secure their compliance." Let's just say she was on to something . . .

Finally, if someone can post to the Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group, I'd appreciate it.


	13. Chuck vs The Calm

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this.

* * *

Castle

Chuck's jaw dropped at the sight of his old bearded friend. "Morgan? What are you doing here?"

Morgan's eyes opened wide. "Two words: Harry Tang. You wouldn't believe it. He found me in Hawaii. He said he was an undercover agent. That you and Sarah were too. And that my country needed me. I thought he was off-his-rocker. I mean, Harry-fucking-Tang. But then he handed me a portable CD player. It contained a recorded video message from someone named General Beckman. Then it blew up in my face."

Chuck looked back at Morgan. "But . . . Anna, being a Benihana chef . . . your dream?"

Morgan beamed back with pride. He reached up, grabbed Chuck's arms and shook them excitedly. "To be a spy, with my best friend . . . this is my dream."

Chuck's glance turned towards Walt. "This . . . it's your doing?"

Walt emitted half-a-chuckle. "You could say that. You've had a tough few weeks. . . Sarah thought you needed something, someone, to keep you grounded."

Chuck's eyes blazed at Sarah.

"I didn't, I would never. . ." she protested.

Walt cut-her-off. "She didn't. And she would never. She merely spotted the problem. I determined a solution. There's more."

Walt pressed a button and Castle's monitor came alive, showing the images of seven grizzled people. Chuck eyes fluttered, as streams of images flickered rapidly before his eyes. He grabbed his head in pain.

Walt winked at him, and spoke. "As Captain Bartowski already knows, these are the heads of seven of the largest narco gangs in Mexico. They are meeting next week at a resort in Cabo San Lucas. Initial reports suggest that they are trying to iron-out some kind of a peace, to bring an end to all the fighting. Maybe divvy up territories, that sort of thing."

Morgan jumped in, excitedly. "And you want us to what, take them all down in one swift stroke? Maybe some Godfather III action with a helicopter?" Morgan maneuvered his arms to depict a fake machine gun and started spraying imaginary bullets across the room.

Walt laughed. "Not quite. I want you to go there, meander around the resort, place some bugs, and see if you can listen in on anything not captured by the bugs."

Chuck looked at Walt with a puzzled expression. "So, basically, you want us to sit on the beach, guzzle down margaritas, and hope that we maybe overhear something?

Walt nodded. "Pretty much, yes. Merry and I will be tagging along. We'll take a private jet down to Cabo tomorrow. Our cover will be as senior tech executives on a weekend retreat with our significant others – Chuck with Sarah, me with Merry. John, Morgan . . ."

Casey grunted. "Don't tell me that I'm cover-coupling with the bearded troll."

Walt grinned. "No. While that might have made a good plot for a 1980s comedy, it's not efficient spy work. Same-sex couples get noticed too easily. The goal here is to blend in. We're roping in additional agents to play house with the two of you. They will meet us in Mexico"

Walt turned towards Chuck and Sarah. "Chuck, Sarah, it's my hope that this will also be a bit of a mentorship opportunity for you both. Remember what I said the first day we met: the first rule of being a good spy is not looking like a fucking spy. Don't be the bull in the china shop. Learn to look _ordinary_. Learn to _disappear _into a crowd. To be so _unremarkable_ that no one will even remember your presence. Granted, that might be easier for me than for you, Sarah, but I'm hoping that there might be some hope for your boyfriend."

* * *

The Ring Chamber, Office of the Chair

The Ring Chair reclined in her chair. Not the official "Chair" in the Chamber, but the modest office chair behind her desk. Her plans and dreams swam rapidly through her mind. Just then, a random thought occurred to her. And it made her smile. She pressed the intercom at her desk. "Pietro," she directed her secretary.

"Yes, Madam Chair," a voice responded from the intercom.

The Ring Chair continued. "Please get in touch with the Mule. Tell him to wrap up his current assignment and report back to me. I have something special in mind for him."

"Yes, Madam."

The Ring Chair's smile grew wickeder. "Oh, and Pietro . . . tell the Mule to get in touch with his old Indian friend."

"Yes, Madam Chair . . . should I let him know the purpose?"

The Ring Chair laughed. "Since when do we tell the guinea pigs about the experiments?"

* * *

Wong and Sons Dry Cleaners, Burbank California

"Name," a short 53-year old Asian clerk stated, his thick eyeglasses focused on the store's computer.

"Ellie Whitcomb," his customer answered, "W-H-I-T-C-O-M-B."

The clerk nodded, and typed in the name. "No Whitcomb. Could it be under something else?"

Ellie grinned. "Bartowski. Try Bartowski."

The clerk nodded again, and typed in the name. "Ah yes, Bartowski. I have it. Two dresses and a man's suit, right?

"Yes, that's correct."

The clerk's eyes picked up. "You have a brother, right?

Ellie nodded affirmatively. "Yes, Chuck. Why?"

The clerk smiled. "He mentions you, a lot. Very good customer, your brother. And a very nice man. He has an order here that he hasn't picked up. Do you want to take it for him?

"Sure, I live right across from him."

The clerk smiled again. "I'll be right back."

Two minutes later, the clerk returned. He was carrying two dresses, a man's suit, a tuxedo, and and the dress blue uniform of an Air Force captain. "Here you go," he said.

Ellie looked at the clothes before her. "Um . . . something's not right. This uniform, it's not my brother's."

A confused expression grew on the clerk's face. He pointed to the nameplate. "It says C. Bartowski right here, doesn't it? Besides, we don't get many uniforms here."

"But my brother isn't in the military," Ellie responded.

The clerk threw up his hands. "Eh. . . maybe he likes to play dress up with that blond dame he has. I just clean the clothes."

The clerk walked away, to attend to another customer. Ellie stared at the uniform in front of her. She'd done Navy ROTC for a year in college. Not on scholarship, just as an elective. She thought about applying for a scholarship, committing . . . maybe as a way to pay for school. But she ultimately didn't have the stomach for it. Still, she remembered some things. Such as the uniforms. And the garment resting on the countertop in front of her looked authentic. Damn authentic. This wasn't a Halloween costume. She pondered the obvious question: "_Did Chuck join the Air Force? And if so, when? And why didn't he tell me?_" Then she looked closer at the nameplate. The three letters: "Cpt." The two connected silver bars confirmed it: Chuck was a Captain - an officer's rank above both 2nd Lt. and 1st Lt. But that answer just begged the question: _when_? She knew it took years to make Captain. She didn't know for sure, but she guessed at least five or six. Her mind leaped to the next deduction: Chuck had only been out of Stanford about 7.5 years. The timeline fit. _"Was he in the military this whole time? And if so, why didn't he tell me?_"

She bit her lip. Something didn't add up. Until six months ago, Chuck had worked at the Buy More. Even if he was in the reserves, not active duty, he would have had responsibilities. She saw the commercials; she knew the basics. One weekend a month, and two weeks in the summer . . . or something like that. But she'd seen Chuck loaf around the house endlessly for five years before he met Sarah. No monthly "retreats," or anything like that. No vacations, except the periodic staycation for a Halo marathon. Besides, those five years coincided with Afghanistan, Iraq. What are the odds that Chuck would have been stateside, in the reserves, and never called up – even for something domestic?

Ellie shuddered, theorizing two possibilities. The first is that this was something recent. She discounted that. Chuck was working for Sarah's uncle. Besides, how would he get commissioned directly as a Captain? The other possibility equally made no sense: that this wasn't something recent at all. That Chuck had been lying to her for quite a long time. That he didn't have military weekends or summer weeks because he wasn't reserves. He was active duty . . . and had been, for a very long time. She thought back to Stanford. It had never made sense . . . Chuck just folded. He barely made an effort to fight his expulsion. _"Stanford. The expulsion. Bryce. Was it all a sham? Did he not tell me . . . because he couldn't tell me? Was my little brother under cover, at a Buy More, for seven years?_"

Ellie laughed. The scenario her mind had just dreamed up sounded ridiculous. Was there any other explanation? Ellie shook her head. She didn't know. But she would find out.

* * *

CIA-Chartered Bombardier 300 Private Jet

Morgan poured himself a grape soda, dashed in two ice cubes, and collapsed back into the private jet's lounge chair. "This is awesome. How can you not think this is awesome? The planes? The missions? The women."

"Ahem." Sarah said, pretending to clear her throat.

Chuck sat down next to his old friend. "Buddy, it's more complicated than that. This is a bad business."

Morgan downed his grape soda. "Chuck, we're on a private jet. . . about to spend a week, all-expenses-paid, in Mexico, accompanied by beautiful women."

Walt chimed in, grumpily. "Not beautiful." He dug into his briefcase and passed Morgan a folder. "This is your cover girlfriend for the trip." Morgan looked down, and his eyes grew a little dejected. The picture in front of him wasn't of an ugly-women. Far from it. Plain would be a better word. She had brown, mousey hair, and brown eyes. She looked to be about 20 lbs too heavy. A half-dozen pimples speckled about her face.

Walt chuckled. "You're thinking that she looks like a clerk at the corner CVS. That's the idea." He turned his head towards Sarah. "Sometimes we need a pretty blond to seduce a gullible, lonely shrub," he said, before turning back towards Morgan. "But for a standard surveillance op, Amanda's twice the agent that Honey Ryder over there ever could be."

Just then, a familiar voice called out. "I hope I'm not interrupting something."

Chuck, Sarah, Casey, Morgan, and Walt all turned around. The jet's teleconference screen had come alive, and General Beckman's face was gracing it.

"General," Sarah stated. Casey and Chuck both saluted. Morgan attempted a salute, drawing a groan from Casey.

"What can we do for you, General?" Casey asked.

General Beckman answered him with a serious yet depressed tone. "I'm afraid that your mission to Cabo has been cancelled. I have news to report. There was an attack tonight, on Ft. Meade. The Ring."

Casey's eyes lit up. "Your joking. The place is literally a fortress."

"I'm afraid not," the General retorted. "It must have been an inside job. Traitors among us. The Ring took it. The intersect. Then it blew up the lab, blew up all the servers the code was housed in, everything."

"My father?" Chuck asked, worryingly.

"Safe," the General answered. "They only tranqued him. Some kind of a gas. They deployed it throughout our facility . . . it knocked out all our people . . . they came in, took what they wanted, blew stuff up, and left. If there's any saving grace, it's that they pulled off the job with no fatalities."

Casey interrupted. "That couldn't have been an accident."

The General nodded. "Agreed, but . . ."

Chuck finished her sentence. "The Ring now has a working intersect."

"Worse," the General answered. "It has the source code. And it has blueprints for both the lab and the cipher. It could make a million intersects."

* * *

Castle

The team emerged down Castle's steps, downtrodden and resigned. The faint smell of whiskey and vomit percolated the air, growing stronger with each step. Chuck spotted him first. It was Roan. He was hunched over Castle's conference table. Conscious, yet looking barely alive. Next to him was a bottle of Wild Turkey, approximately three-quarters finished. Spilled whiskey dripped down his cheeks, onto his stained white Oxford cotton shirt and navy-blue tweed blazer, then dripping onto the rug. Next to him was a garbage can, filled with vomit – a significant quantity of which was also on Roan's shirt and jacket, and the rug beneath him.

As they approached, they could Roan muttering. "I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop it," he said, over and over, as if part of a never-ending Gregorian chant.

Chuck touch him on the shoulder, startling him. Roan jumped back half an inch. "Chaarlesses. . . . . my bo-uy," he muttered, slurring his words, as he turned towards Chuck with an inebriated over-smile.

"What's this about?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, this." Roan responded, flailing his hands about at the mess he created. "You see, I came here to tell you something. But then I found the whiskey. And it seeeeemedddd like a good idea to have a drink. Or thirteen drinks. Probably was still a good eyyye-dea. You see, I failed you . . . I faaailed you all. Tonight is proof of that. But I can still maaake it rrrright."

"I don't understand," Chuck stated.

Roan grabbed the whiskey, stood up, and took along slug straight from the bottle. "You see, I've been under cover with the Ring for the past six years. And I know their plan." Then Roan fell flat onto the rug, passed out drunk.

* * *

A/N: So I apologize for the delayed update. . . The time lag was largely for two reasons. First, this has been a crazy time for all - and I simply haven't had the time. Second, there wasn't much feedback on the last chapter, which disheartened me a bit. But I'm going to finish this story . . . and something big happens in the next chapter.


	14. Chuck vs The Storm

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

_Hi, I'm Chuck. And here are some things you should know, or maybe you just forgot: _

Chapter 4:

_Casey: "Something else, General. Even after the Latin flash mostly faded, Chuck kept repeating that crap all afternoon. 'Casey, can you pass the coffee, Carthago delenda est.' 'I wonder how Ellie and Awesome are doing on their honeymoon, Carthago delenda est.' 'I'm headed to the bathroom, Carthago delenda est.'"_

Chapter 12

_Roan: "It's not like the other bugs. It doesn't affect your ability to access skills or information. Instead, it interferes with intent. Specifically, the intent to murder. You can still defend yourself, defend your partners. But you literally can't kill for them now . . . at least not in cold blood._

Chapter 13

_The Ring Chair: "Oh, and Pietro . . . tell the Mule to get in touch with his old Indian friend." _

_Pietro: "Yes, Madam Chair . . . should I let him know the purpose?"_

_Ring Chair: "Since when do we tell the guinea pigs about the experiments?"_

_Chapter 13_

_Chuck: "The Ring now has a working intersect."_

_General Beckman: "Worse, it has the source code. And it has blueprints for both the lab and the cipher. It could make a million intersects."_

_Chapter 13_

_Roan grabbed the whiskey, stood up, and took along slug straight from the bottle. "You see, I've been under cover with the Ring for the past six years. And I know their plan." _

_Then Roan fell flat onto the rug, passed out drunk._

* * *

Castle

Casey splashed a glass of water on Roan's slumbering face. "Talk."

Roan's head barely nudged.

"Casey, let him sleep it off," Sarah said. "We'll get nothing about of him in this condition."

Casey turned and scowled at her. "We'll get a head start on where to look for the traitorous scum that attacked Ft. Meade and took the intersect."

Walt paced, then chewed on his glasses. "I agree with Agent Walker. It's been hours since the assault on Ft. Meade. If Roan had any time-sensitive information to report, presumably he would have reached out to General Beckman before indulging himself."

"You don't know the drunk," Casey replied.

Walt raised his eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to speak, when Castle's monitor came alive. A familiar voice responded to Casey's statement from the screen.

"Incorrect, Lt. Col. Casey. Agents Montgomery and Hubbard have a long, if not exactly pleasant history."

Casey turned around and saluted. "General."

General Beckman turned towards Chuck. "Ahem," she said. "It's my understanding that a General outranks a Captain. Isn't that correct, Cpt. Bartowkski?" Chuck got the gist, and reluctantly raised his hand in salute.

The General continued. "As I was saying, Roan did attempt to reach me last night. But, by the time he did, communications with Ft. Meade had been cut-off. When we got there, the Ring had accomplished its objectives and left. Roan didn't know where the Ring took its prizes."

Roan stammered back into consciousness. "Quite right, General. Now, do you think it's time to tell this team what's really been going on?" The rest of the team greeted Roan's statement, and seeming instant, magical sobriety, with surprise.

"Alright, Roan," the General answering, nodding.

Roan rose and commanded the floor's attention. "The Ring, gentleman, is unlike any organization that you've ever dealt with. It's an international association of spies, military leaders, elected officials, deep state technocrats, and others – with a singular goal in mind."

"Global domination?" Morgan asked.

Roan shook his head. "No. World peace and prosperity."

The team answered with stunned silence and open mouths.

Roan grinned, paced the room, and continued. "Let me explain. As you may know already, the Ring began as a secret society of dissident spies and military officers from within the Warsaw Pact. At first, they were committed to ending Communism and overthrowing the Russian domination of their home countries. But, much like NATO morphed into something very different once the Cold War ended, so did the Ring. Its leadership grew tired and bitter at the petty squabbles between nations. The Iranians kill the Iraqis, who in turn kill the Kuwaitis and the Kurds . . . that sort of thing. And they began reaching out to their old Cold War contacts in other countries to build something greater – a network committed to bypassing, indeed _undermining_ the national institutions that foster wars, terrorism, oppression, death. And so the modern Ring formed, functioning as a kind of global shadow government, using its power to overrule nations and impose its will – its desire for peace."

Morgan began muttering. "One Ring to rule them all."

Roan smiled a Morgan's remark, then continued to explain. "Let me give you an example. About four years ago, two powerful nuclear nations almost went to war. Let's call one of them Shm-india, and the other Shm-ackistan. Tensions were high. Millions of lives were on the line. And then the Ring stepped in. Ring operatives from both sides met amongst themselves and negotiated a peace."

"How?" Chuck asked.

Roan emitted a wicked smile. "Well, in the case of Shm-ackistan, the Ring had video footage of the Minister of Defense enjoying the company of an eleven-year old male prostitute. The Ring had that footage because, well, the Ring had supplied the prostitute. Shm-india was trickier. The Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, the head of the Army . . . all clean. Or clean-ish, anyway. So the Ring abducted the Minister of Defense and showed her live video footage of all of her extended family members . . . with Ring snipers honed in on each of their positions. Suddenly, she became much more reasonable. Tens of thousands, perhaps millions of lives were saved. All at the cost of a little human trafficking, child exploitation, extortion, and what not."

Casey examined Roan skeptically. He pressed. "But if what you're saying is true . . . if an organization like this really exists, then 9-11, the wars in Afghanistan, Iraq. And that's just what affected America."

Roan kept pacing but acknowledged the point. "All very true. The Ring is powerful. But it has its limits."

Morgan absorbed it all, fascinated. He spoke: "they're keepers of the peace, not soldiers."

Chuck shot his friend a bemused look. "Really? A prequels reference?"

Roan answered. "Your friend has a point, Charles. The Ring is influential and well-connected. But it isn't omnipotent. At least . . . not yet."

Chuck understood. "The Intersect," he answered.

Roan stopped moving and nodded. "They're building an army. But, before I get into details, is your little sidekick cleared to be read in on the details of the Intersect?"

Walt jumped in. "I cleared him, briefed him."

Morgan flailed his hands in the air. "It was awesome. I mean, my friend, a superhero. Like Neo in the Matrix."

Roan resumed his pacing. "I see. In any event, the original Intersect didn't interest the Ring very much. It didn't need a specialized database of government secrets. Its operatives already had enough blackmail material to fill a continent. And its uncover agents continued to supply a steady-stream of new information. But the Intersect's promise . . . that interested them. The potential to endow ordinary people with incredible abilities. But, even more so, the prospect of controlling their minds. . . . In a way, it was your father's practical joke which cemented the Ring's current direction."

Chuck shot Roan a curious expression. Roan explained. "That Latin nonsense the Intersect compelled you to repeat about destroying Carthage?"

Chuck nodded his head. "Ahh yes."

Roan continued. "The Ring took great interest in your father's prank. After all, why create an army of supermen who can turn on you, betray you? When you can use that same technology to input commands that will ensure they obey your every order."

Morgan gleamed. "So what you're saying is . . . the dark side of the Intersect is a pathway to many abilities that _some_ might consider to be unnatural."

Chuck turn again towards his friend. "Another prequels quote? Really?"

"Hey, Palpatine was the best part of those movies." Morgan replied.

Casey scoffed. "Twiddle-dee and twiddle-dumbass." He then turned towards Roan. "Bel Riose, the Ring agent who killed himself in San Diego, he said something about the End of History. What the hell was he talking about?"

"_To_ the End of the History," Roan rejoined. "You forgot the 'to.'"

"I don't understand," Casey commented.

Roan laughed then resumed his pace. "The Ring's slogan – 'to the End of History' – it's a sarcastic rejoinder to the Marxist view of history. Specifically, the Marxist idea that human history is a series of class struggles, punctured by revolutions, and that history will end when Communism triumphs –reigning forever, as the final evolved form of human society. The Ring's original purpose was to make sure that didn't happen. Even today, the Ring sees itself as the perpetual guardians of freedom and peace, the wall standing athwart totalitarianism yelling 'stop.' It has pledged itself to maintain that vigilance, 'to the end of history."

Morgan raised his hand. Roan spotted it. "This isn't kindergarten. Do you have a question, fine sir?"

Morgan nodded. "Yeah, if what you're saying is true . . . why is the Ring bad? I mean, isn't wanting freedom and peace a good thing? And how did you get mixed up in all this?"

"Ahh yes. . .," Roan replied wistfully. "Perhaps the Ring has good intentions. But the Ring is willing to do whatever it takes to advance those good intentions. Drug dealing, gun running, extortion, protection rackets, child prostitution . . . you name it, the Ring is knee-deep in it. All to fund their war chest and build up their arsenal of black mail."

Walt interrupted him. "There's another factor you have to consider. No one elected the Ring. It's nothing more than a society of traitors to their respective governments, committed to enacting their own vision of how the world should be. That vision isn't the vision of the American people, as decided by our elected representatives. We're not willing to cede our sovereignty to an international hive of scum and villainy."

Hearing Walt's last remark, Morgan immediately began humming the Star Wars cantina music – drawing a chuckle from Walt, and glares from Casey and Roan. "I like the kid," Walt muttered.

Roan nodded. "Walt's right, of course. For a change. Not about Morgan, about the Ring. Yet it's their vision which makes them so difficult to fight. They aren't like Fulcrum or the any of the enemies you've fought before. They don't want money, or women, or fame, or even power. The Ring's leadership – known as the Chamber - is made up of aging operatives with plenty of money – but no one share their wealth with. These are people without families, without heirs, without futures. People who gave their entire lives fighting for nationalist causes they no longer believe in. The Ring's leadership doen't want to _run _the world. Their only motive is to leave a positive legacy, to enact their vision of how to make the world a better place . . . no matter the cost."

Roan's voice grew somber. "As for how I got mixed-up? Just look at me. I'm a geriatric drunk. I have no family, no children, no real friends. The only thing which keeps me going, other than alcohol, is this nagging belief that in some small way, I might make a difference out there. That's what gives my life meaning. Well, that and 20-year-old strippers. In other words, I'm exactly what they look for in a recruit."

General Beckman chimed in. "And that's why, eight years ago, we appointed Roan as our liaison to the Ring. A kind of 'ambassador,' if you will."

Chuck shot back incredulously. "Ambassador? We _allied_ with the Ring? Even _after _they killed my mom?"

General Beckman's voice grew calm, almost empathetic. "Chuck, we didn't know that at the time. And we told you already that we used to fund the Ring, during the Cold War . . . we just didn't tell you everything, things you didn't need to know. Roan has more-or-less described the situation accurately. The Ring is ruthless. It's criminal. But, on balance, it's probably saved a lot more lives than it's taken. And it was our hope that our liaison . . . that Roan . . . could steer the Ring in a more pro-American direction."

Chuck nodded. "But then something happened, didn't it?"

Roan answered him. "About two years after I started working _with_ them, on America's behalf, the Ring asked me to switch sides. They made a pretty compelling case. So I pretended to say yes. And I became a double-agent. I rose to a position of influence – one of their so-called 'Revered Delegates.' And I used that influence to help where I could. You'll notice that, unlike Fulcrum, the Ring hasn't tried to kill any of you, right?"

Chuck's eyes opened wide in acknowledgement. Roan grinned and continued. "That was my doing. I convinced the Ring that you, your team, were essential to their plans. I even managed to get you all placed under a form of their protection. And in return . . . "

General Beckman interrupted him. "In return he provided them mostly with sinecures. Information on the Intersect which we either suspected or confirmed they already had. And, when he provided real data, it was on topics where our interests and the Ring's aligned – troop movements in North Korea, that sort of thing."

Chuck pressed. "But the attack, on Ft. Meade. If you're so high up in the Ring, why couldn't you stop it? And why can't you tell us where the stolen Intersect is now?"

Roan walked over to the Wild Turkey and took a big chug straight from the bottle. "I'm influential, Charles. But not influential enough. I knew there would be an attack, and warned the General to take precautions. But I didn't know when or how. The same thing goes with the Ring's plans going forward – I know what the Ring _wants_: to build an army. But I'm not privy to _where _it's doing the work. All I know is that it plans to modify the Intersect to suit its purposes, and is then planning a 'trial' of the modified program a small group of true believers. Where or when that trial will be, I do not know. But I intend to find out."

Casey examined Roan skeptically. "Let's say you're telling the truth. There's something I don't understand: Bryce, he said that Fulcrum was just part of the Ring. But we knew Fulcrum. They were patriots. Misguided, traitorous patriots, but still patriots. They were all about helping the United States to win the next war. They wouldn't go fall in with this international kumbaya crap."

Roan sat down and took another gulp from the whiskey. "Fulcrum was a Ring offshoot. They wanted to win wars, we wanted to prevent them. At first, we saw them as useful idiots. Hyper-nationalists who betrayed their own principles to give us data, intelligence, that we could use to further our objectives. Eventually, they grew into something like a rebellious, bastard child. They were the Branch Davidians to our Catholic Church. And they posed a threat. The Ring shed no tears when you put most of their leadership in coffins. We even finished off the rest of them for you."

Chuck turned towards General Beckman, and then back at Roan. "We've been fighting the Ring for months. Why didn't you tell us any of this before? Give me, the human Intersect, the data to analyze? I could have helped? I could have prevented this."

Walt answered him. "I knew, Chuck. As to why we kept your team in the dark, what's the first rule about Fight Club?"

Morgan answered him. "Don't talk about Fight Club."

Walt's eye twinkled. "Well, the same goes for spy work. The General, myself, we told you what you needed to know. But we didn't want to risk exposing Roan – once the booze flows, he has a habit of exposing himself anyway - by sharing that information with people we're placing under cover, who might get caught and interrogated."

Roan groaned. "Walt's call. Not my own." Roan got up and walked over to Walt. He placed his hand on Walt's shoulder, then unzipped his own fly.

"Walt, did you say something about me exposing myself?"

A fountain of golden liquid sprung forth from Roan's trousers, landing on Walt's leg. "What's the old saying, Walt? It's better to be pissed off than pissed on? Well, you have a habit of pissing me off. I might as well return the favor. But hey, you're in charge."

* * *

Castle

The next six weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Chuck mired himself in reports and data, hoping to flash on something, anything, that would enlighten them about the Ring's next move. He also kept finding myself dodging inquiries from Ellie. Something was up with her, but he didn't have the time to focus on it.

Without any leads, the team stayed confined to Castle and their cover offices. Beckman's and Walt's orders. They needed everyone here, helping Chuck analyze data. More importantly, Beckman and Walt didn't want a critical piece of information to get overlooked while the team scampered about on some mission.

As frustrating as the experience was for Chuck, it was worse for Casey and Sarah. Chuck at least had a head for paper, for figures, for connecting dots. Casey didn't. He felt his trigger finger get itchy as he waited around for Chuck, Walt, or Beckman to come through with a lead. Most days, he spent taking out his aggression in Castle's firing range, or sparring with Sarah. But after more than two-and-a-half years of almost non-stop missions, he found the downtime awful. Sarah wasn't much better. Unlike Casey, she could handle reviewing reports. But she had rejected desk jobs for a reason. And boredom of the past several weeks exemplified why.

Roan upended the quietude, making a surprise broadcast from Castle's monitor on an otherwise quiet Tuesday afternoon.

"I had news," he reported. "As I mentioned before, the Ring has been planning to test the Intersect on a small group of die-hard loyalists. I finally got a time and location."

"When?" Casey asked.

"About seven hours from now."

Casey grunted. Sarah pressed the issue. "After six weeks, you couldn't give us more warning than that?"

Roan nodded subtlety, acknowledging her point. "I tried, but wasn't briefed until the rest of the Revered Delegates. That briefing took place less than 20 minutes ago. The good news is that it's comparatively close to you. The installation will take place in a warehouse located in Pahrump, Nevada."

Casey's mood brightened. "That's about a five-hour drive. Less with choppers. We can make it. And we can organize a strike team."

Walt struck a note of caution. "Perhaps. But the Intersect remains highly classified. We can't go in with 100 men who don't have clearance. If we do, we risk some jackass corporal leaking the entire project to the Wall Street Journal."

Casey turned to him deadpan. "The only leak you need to worry about sprang from Roan. And it dribbled on you. I trust our men."

Walt scowled. "I don't. We don't need another Bradley Manning blowing open the biggest dark project in this country's history . . . much less the Ring's existence. It will have to be the five of us, plus a few specially selected men."

Casey scanned the room. "Five? Your bringing the troll?"

Walt grinned, mischievously.

* * *

Pahrump, Nevada

Casey, Chuck, Sarah, and Walt sat, heavily suited up with body armor in the trailer of a large commercial truck. Five special ops soldiers joined them. Morgan, in civilian clothes, sat at the improvised computer monitor inside the van.

Casey growled. "So Morgan's going to be our eyes and ears?"

Walt walked over to Morgan and began lightly massaging his shoulders. "He'll do fine. Got to break him in some way. Besides, it's just like Call of Duty." He bent over Morgan's shoulders and looked at the screen. "What do you see, buddy?"

Morgan studied the screen, the data. It really was a lot like Call of Duty. The white dots on the screen signified heat signatures. He counted them. "41 hostiles, sir. They don't seem to me moving, at least not much."

Casey growled again, this time letting his growl soften into a grunt. "41, potentially Intersected traitors. Against the nine of us?"

Walt continued studying the screen. "According to Roan's data, the download won't be for another ten minutes. Right now, they are ordinary operatives. Probably just sitting waiting for the show to begin. And we're going to make sure that never happens." He gestured over to one of the special ops troopers. "You ready?"

"Yes sir," the faceless trooper replied. The trooper pressed a button, and six drones emerged on Morgan's screen, converging on the location.

"You're going to blow them up?" Chuck asked.

"Not exactly," Walt responded. About two seconds later, the drones fired. Their missiles converged on the warehouse, smashed the windows, and flooded it with smoke.

"Knock out gas," Walt explained. "Less exciting than a television firefight, but far more effective. Now, let's go in and clean up this mess."

The team, minus Morgan, and the special ops troopers ran towards the warehouse. They found 41 sleeping men scattered across the floor. Walt motioned to the troopers. "Get these men in custody."

Just then, Chuck scanned the computer terminal, then looked up at the large electronic monitor in the warehouse. Two words were displayed. "Download Complete." And he started to hear rumblings. The Ring agents were waking up.

"Guys . . . I think they're coming alive." Chuck expressed in an agitated voice.

"Inconceivable." Walt responded.

Chuck's eyes darted around the warehouse. He flashed on a mechanical system located in the four upper corners of the warehouse. "The ventilation system. It's a special design, a military prototype. It filters out toxins with shocking efficiency. Only a tiny fraction of the knock-out gas got in here."

Walt scanned the room, as the Ring agents began standing up and converging on the team's position. "But they were asleep . . ."

Chuck looked back at the monitor. "Roan. His information was off. The download, it already took place. It wasn't the gas that knocked them out. It was the Intersect download. The same thing happens to me each time. And now they're awake."

Sarah jumped in. "So we fight." She pulled her rifle and began firing. The special ops team and Casey did the same, as 36 of the 41 newly Intersected Ring operatives converged on them (the remaining five never got off the floor).

The next few minutes were like a blur. Kicks and punches flew like a flock of passenger pigeons. But it was Chuck who ultimately provided the edge. "Guys, they're powered up, like me. But they don't know how to control it. Not yet. And I know the program they are following." Chuck took command of the team's defense and, using his knowledge of the Intersect's fighting skills program, predicted the next moves of their assailants. He barked directions to Sarah, to Casey, to Walt, and to the special ops troopers. Within five minutes, the Ring operatives were dead, wounded, or knocked out. Four of the five special ops troopers also took hits, but Casey, Sarah, Chuck, and Walt emerged only bruised.

Chuck led them over to the computer terminal which controlled the monitor. Sitting down at the terminal, his face turned a ghostly white.

Sarah spotted his worry, and began rubbing his arm softly. "Chuck, what is it?"

Chuck stood up, barely able to speak. "Guys, this wasn't the only site. The Ring, it had other locations, around the world."

Casey spoke. "How many more?"

Chuck answered "Eight – "

"Eight?" Walt mused. "Not so bad. We took care of this one. We can handle a few others."

"-Thousand, three hundred, fifty-nine," Chuck said, continuing. He repeated the figure. "Eight thousand, three hundred, and fifty-nine."

The team gasped, as Chuck did the math in his head. "Assuming a similar size as this group, we're talking about roughly 340,000 Intersected Ring Agents."

Casey smiled. "Against the three of us? I'll take those odds." Walt scowled silently as he caught Casey's implication.

"Better," Sarah said. She grabbed Chuck's right hand and gripped it tightly. "The Ring might have an army of over 300,000 Ring-infested soldiers. But we have something they don't."

"What's that?" Chuck asked, befuddled.

She grabbed his hand even tighter and kissed him tenderly yet briefly on the lips. As the kiss ended, she spoke:

"You."

* * *

Penthouse Apartment, Avenida Horacio, Polanco, Mexico City

The Ring Chair lathered up her shampoo as her shower's fierce jets sprayed hot water on her brownish-auburn hair, which was mixed with fleeting streaks of grey. She greedily absorbed the steam, the water. This hot shower was just the first part of her hard-earned reward. All night, the reports had trickled in from all corners of the globe. Success after success. In thousands of urban slums, tribal villages, and backwater hamlets, in over 170 countries.

Some prospective recruits came believing they would be viewing a video on job opportunities. Others thought they were attending a presentation on how to immigrate to the United States. Still others thought that they would meet members of the opposite sex, or learn about how to invest in real estate. Groups as small as twelve, and as large as over one hundred, averaging about forty a location. No matter their reason for coming, or what they thought they would be watching, all the attendees emerged as mind-controlled sleeper agents for the Ring – powered by the Intersect. They would go home to their spouses and families. They would lie down in their beds and awake to go to work, shop in stores, pray in churches, mosques, and shrines – blissfully unaware of their true purpose. And waiting, ever ready, to be activated at her command.

Sacrifices had to be made, of course. According to the reports she received, about 15% of the prospective recruits suffered strokes, aneurisms, and other complications. Another 20% failed to process the data properly. Those resisters would need to be dealt with. Still, a 65% success rate was higher than her expectations. She had run the numbers in her head. She now had over 220,000 soldiers at her disposal. For years, she had desired an army. Now she had one. And this was just phase one. In the coming weeks, countless more would be introduced to her slimmed down, mind-controlling Intersect. Moreover, as more data came in, as more tests were run, she could improve the code. She could reduce the rate of resisters, cut down on the number of dead and disabled, and vastly improve the percentage of attendees who would become her acolytes, her servants.

Perhaps, she thought, the code could be simplified more. She had already deleted the data and intelligence portions of the program. The last thing she needed was knowledgeable peons. No, her new operatives just needed a few special Intersect-granted skills, and the special code she had written – no, _expanded upon_ – to influence, control their actions. Stephen was always the genius, the inventor. But she was the tinkerer, the perfectionist. It had always been that way, even back when she assisted him in creating the original Intersect. In many respects, Stephen was the father of the original Intersect. But she was its mother. She had been the one to proofread his code, remove the errors, and improve the efficiency of the data transfer. Without her, Stephen's grand design likely would have never worked at all.

And now, Stephen had devised how to use the Intersect to control minds. . . his stupid practical jokes . . . his naïve effort to protect his son from a CIA-functioned Red Test. He had unwittingly devised the skeleton of code that she perfected for her own purposes. And she would put it to uses that Stephen never would have envisioned in his most vivid dreams. Or in his darkest nightmares.

She shut of the water, wrapped herself in a luxurious white cotton robe, and grabbed a hair brush. She danced to air music, floating her way to her living room cabinet. She opened a glass door, and pulled out a crystalline vial of cocaine. She carefully measured out about 60 mg of the precious powder upon her black countertop. She took a credit card and expertly cut the pile into two thin lines. She placed her nose on the table . . . and stopped. She felt so naturally high, so euphoric, that she didn't want to cheapen this experience with chemicals. The cocaine would wait for another night.

The doorbell rang. She smiled and twirled herself towards the door. She opened it. There was Roan, standing in a white dinner jacket, holding a single lily. She hated roses, but loved lilies. And he knew that about her.

Roan bowed gracefully towards her. "Madame Chair," he said, presenting himself.

She smacked him playfully with the hair brush. "Really, _Revered Delegate_? So formal, even outside of the office?"

Roan smiled deeply back at her. "Very well, _Mary_."

She smacked him with her hair brush again, and then circled his body seductively. "That's better, but still not good enough." She reached out with her tongue and teeth, and began nibbling on his neck.

Roan grabbed her arm and dipped her. "As you wish, _my love_."

She smiled again, and placed the softest bite on his left ear. "See, was that so hard?" She twirled away from him. "Come in. Can I get you anything? Champagne? Scotch?"

Roan scoffed. "Please, my liver can barely stomach that stuff when I'm undercover. A club soda will do nicely, on the rocks."

She pranced away from him, grabbed a glass and pressed it against her refrigerator's ice machine. Then she slowly poured him a lemon-lime seltzer. "And your assignment?," she asked.

Roan cackled. "Diane. She's like a lovesick school girl. It was all too easy. And the rest of them?" Roan straightened his left arm out, and used his right arm to play an imaginary instrument. "Like a fiddle," he responded, smiling wickedly.

Mary pressed him. "Walt?"

Roan cackled again. "He might have been the easiest of all. So predictable. First, as we anticipated, his sheer dickishness practically pushed your son into my arms. Then, our Cambodian associates only had to extend the offer, and he swallowed up the bait. Ordering an absurd Red Test which, predictably, resulted in Stephen providing us with the code you needed . . . the code that we can use to override free will."

Mary took in Roan's gloating. "I'm curious. . . Most recently, what did you have to say to them to get them to buy your story?"

"The truth," Roan answered.

Mary shot back a perplexed look, as she handed him his drink. Then she poured a seltzer for herself.

"Well, more or less," Roan continued, stammering a bit.

Mary stood there in silence, sipping her drink, her sense of befuddlement growing. Her look grew curiouser.

"I guess you could say that the truth was its distant ancestor," Roan explained.

"I see," Mary responded.

Roan took a hearty sip and grinned back at her. "As your son might say, I what I said was the truth . . . from a certain point of view."

Mary took another sip, and then stared off into space, deep in thought. "I was never much of a mother to him, or to Ellie. I had other priorities. But what kind of mother doesn't want to leave the world a better place for her children? I mean, if we don't have to kill them first, of course."

Roan took another sip, and deferentially mini-bowed towards her. "Of course. . . on that front, do you have a status update on our Great Cause, on the Little Child?"

Mary gulped down some seltzer, then shot Roan a prying look. "It's a longer-term project. The coding is more complicated. It could be a couple of months. But let's not worry about that now." She grabbed a remote and flipped on her tv. Two singers were performing, dressed as members of St. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The blond man in blue, his Indian friend in red. Both wore the colorful, faux Edwardian military outfits that the Beatles popularized. Their angelic voices cascaded through the luxury penthouse.

Roan laughed. "You didn't."

Mary took another sip. "I did," she answered, smiling. "We needed test subjects. And from the harmony I'm hearing, I think we can agree it was a success. Besides, they amuse me. So little amuses me. Besides, does not every ruling court need a jester? Or, in this case. . . "

"A Jeffster," Roan answered, chuckling as he watched the performance on Mary's television. Though, as he listed, he grew inquisitive. "But the choice of song? I get the theme, but Lennon meant the words ironically, critically."

Mary twirled around him again, dipping herself into his arms, then finishing her twirl in his embrace. Her back to his front, his arms wrapping around her waist, enveloping her. As she stared off into space, she answered him, her voice gradually shifting from playful to serious with each passing word:

"_**I know. But I like the music. Besides, we're going to write our own lyrics.**_ **_It is time for History to End_**."

From the television, Jeffster belted forth the following:

_You say you want a revolution_

_Well, you know_

_We all want to change the world_

_You tell me that it's evolution_

_Well, you know_

_We all want to change the world . . ._

* * *

A/N 1: Thoughts, comments? Anyone see that twist coming? Please review.

A/N 2: I had an Ellie scene planned for this chapter, but I moved it. It will likely be in Chapter 16. The next chapter is all Mary's POV.

A/N 3: I had originally intended this to be something like a "mid-season finale." But I think the story is more like 75% over. Probably doesn't go more than 18-20 chapters, unless inspiration hits me.

A/N 4: If someone can post to the Facebook group, I'd appreciate it.


	15. Chuck vs John Brown's Body

A/N 1: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

A/N 2: This chapter is a bit "experimental." It essentially serves as an origin story for this version of Mary Bartowski, who is quite different from the canon version (remember, I said this story would be an almost complete divergence from the end of Season 2). A lot of it is told in her voice. This chapter may not be for everyone.

* * *

_Previously in Chuck vs. The End of History_

_Chapter 3_

_Roan: Everyone, Charles, believes that_ _they are the hero of their own story._

* * *

Mary Bartowski conveyed the Chamber of the Ring. Perched upon her chair, at the top of the eight marble steps, she looked down upon her domain. Flanking her, at the bottom of the stairs, stood the Revered Delegate, Roan Montgomery, on her right, and the Mule, Jeffrey Barnes, on her left.

It was a momentous occasion. A celebration. 140 of her 163 Revered Delegates attended in person, a record. The remaining 23 had jointed by hologram.

Mary pressed a button on her chair's console, and a large four-sided monitor descended above the Chamber's center. On its screen were the faces of seven deceased agents, including Bel Riose. She called the session to order. "Our Great Cause, our momentous work, is nearing its apex. But in our triumph, we must not forget our brave soldiers, our brethren . . . our Links in the Ring, who have fallen in order to bring us to this glorious day."

Mary clicked another button, and the seven images disappeared, replaced by more images, each of which lasted but a few seconds until they were replaced by yet more images. Over course of a few minutes, the images of 79 Links in the Ring appeared and then vanished, representing agents who had perished over the past ten years. Mary spoke again: "But as we mourn their passing, we remember that though their lives are forfeit, their deaths are not in vain."

Mary paused and collected her thoughts. She had found her words a bit broken, slurred. A tear dripped from her right eye. Then she began chanting the Ring's ceremonial memorial song, _John Brown's Body_, written in honor of an abolitionist who died while leading a raid on a federal armory, intending to start a slave rebellion in the antebellum South. It had been a personal favorite song of her father. And she herself had brought the song to the Ring, adopting it for Ring memorial services.

She sang the first few words herself.

_Old John Brown's Body lies moldering in the grave._

The Chamber joined in collectively, their voices thundering.

_While weep the sons of bondage whom he ventured all to save;_

_But though he lost his life while struggling for the slave,_

_His soul is marching on._

_Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah! His soul is marching on!_

Mary pondered the chorus. The religious nature of the song had been controversial when she pushed for its inclusion in Ring ceremonies. That was one reason why only the first verse was sung, not the more religious verses that followed. The Ring was ecumenical. In the words of George Washington, it "gave bigotry no sanction, persecution no assistance." It accepted all who believed in freedom and peace – be they monotheists, polytheists, or nonbelievers. Ultimately, it was Roan's predecessor, herself an agnostic, who had convinced the Chamber to include the chorus. The words of the chorus, though religious in nature, were non-sectarian. They were, in effect, just Ceremonial Deism. Yet they augmented the song's ultimate message: that those who died in service of the Ring, died for a higher purpose.

The chorus ended, and Mary summoned the Chamber back to order. "And now, Revered Delegates, I bestow upon you the power of the Intersect." She pressed a button.

Roan and Jeff felt their cell phones buzz. They looked up upon the Chair, upon Mary, who winked at them. They opened their phones. A simple text message appeared on their phones: "Don't look! Keep your eyes shut!" Immediately, they complied.

The rest of the Chamber gazed up upon the large four-sided monitor, which flashed tens of thousands of images in quick succession. Those appearing by hologram received a similar download through the holographic matrix. After ten minutes, the show ended. The Revered Delegates in the Chamber all collapsed.

Mary walked down the marble steps and briefed Roan and Jeff. "They received the mind controlling version. The same version that our army received, and that your Indian friend got, Mr. Barnes. When they awake, they will obey only me, at my command. For the next steps, we can tolerate no dissension, no ambition, no petty squabbles for personal power or glory."

Roan queried her. "But democracy? Our principles?"

Mary smiled back at him. "At least within the Ring, I guess you could say that this is how liberty ends."

"With thunderous applause?" Jeff asked.

Mary turned and grinned at him. "No. With legions of mind-controlled zombies, doing my bidding."

Jeff turned to her, perplexed. "But you spared us?"

Mary answered him, staring dead ahead, at the docile sleeping bodies of her flock. "You have no ambition Mr. Barnes. Neither does Mr. Montgomery. The same could not be said for this lot. Besides. . .," she turned to the left, facing Jeff, then to the right facing Roan, before centering her view again, "I need angels on both of my shoulders. I have grown far to cynical to have a conscience. It is my hope that I can at least borrow both of yours. More than twenty years of the ends always justifying the means takes a toll."

Roan paused, and rubbed his chin. "So what do we do now, Mary?"

Mary smiled back at him. She reached up and pinched his cheek. "Why, the same thing we do every night, Pinky. We take over the world."

* * *

**Begin excerpts from "The Memoirs of Mary Bartowski, Chair of the Ring"**

My father was born in Krakow, Poland, in 1913, practically on the eve of World War I. Together with his two older brothers, they came of age in the interwar years. They were fierce patriots, ardent Polish nationalists, and strident, small "d" democrats. Together, they faced persecution from the Moscicki regime, in the last years of the Second Polish Republic. It was but a taste of the misfortunes to come.

Hitler and Stalin had formed a pact. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded from the west, while the Soviet Union invaded from the east. The two totalitarian regimes quickly gobbled Poland up between themselves. My father and his brothers debated what to do. One of the brothers wanted to stay in Krakow. He thought the Nazis would be better. But he was outvoted, and the three brothers fled east, into the Soviet occupied portion of the country.

Things turned out to be little better there. Within six months, my father and his brothers were rounded up by the Soviets and sent to a labor camp for seditious, anti-Communist activities. Food was scarce and the work was difficult. My father's eldest brother, Tadeusz, died there. When the Nazis invaded in 1941, my father practically greeted them as liberators. He would soon realize how wrong he was. Within four months, my father and his remaining brother, Mariusz, found themselves imprisoned in Auschwitz. Not, I should clarify, Auschwitz B, the extermination camp. That was mostly reserved for Jews and Soviet prisoners. And my father was a Catholic, not a Jew. So he was spared the gas chambers. Instead, he was placed within Auschwitz III, a labor camp, which housed a mix of prisoners from different nationalities, including Polish political prisoners. There, he was fed three quarters of a liter of watery soup for lunch, and foul-tasting moldy bread for dinner, while working twelve hours a day gathering raw materials to support the German war effort. One morning, an SS officer thought that Mariusz looked at him funny. He shot Mariusz in the face, dead.

Liberation came, of all places, from the Red Army, which found my father skeletal, having hid from the forced evacuation. It is there that he met my mother, a Polish nurse, who came to treat the survivors.

But liberation did not last long. By the late-1940s, an Iron Curtain was descending upon Eastern Europe. My father feared the gulag at the hands of the Communists. My mother's uncle, a wealthy furniture maker in Chicago, managed to send them enough money to get out. They came to the United States, with my great-uncle's help, and settled near Chicago. It was in that environment that I was born, in 1949.

My parents loved America, and everything that it represented. They steeped themselves in its history, its culture, its personalities. That's probably what attracted my father to the story of John Brown – one of his personal heroes. John Brown was a nobody: a tanner and a sheep breeder. But he believed in freedom. One night in 1859, he gathered a force of freed slaves and launched an attack on the Harpers Ferry Armory. He planned to seize its weapons, arm local slaves, and start a slave insurrection. He was captured and hung. But, in so doing, he became the first martyr of the Civil War that was yet to come. His actions, and his death, motivated the Union troops, and helped light the spark of emancipation.

It was my father, and his experiences, that bestowed upon me the value of freedom, the costs of war and totalitarianism, and the price that must sometimes be paid in blood to safeguard human dignity.

_John Brown was a hero, undaunted, true and brave,_

_And Kansas knows his valor when he fought her rights to save;_

_Now, tho the grass grows green above his grave,_

_His soul is marching on._

* * *

I joined the CIA in 1971, right out of the University of Chicago. I wanted to do something to fight the Red Menace that had enslaved almost a third of the world. It was my surprise and disappointment when they didn't assign me to Eastern Europe, but to research and technical support. True, I had an electrical engineering degree. And I had begun dabbling in computers . . . which at the time could still do very little. But I didn't want to be stuck in a backroom designing new toys. I wanted to be an Agent. And I was bilingual in both English and Polish, which would be useful in the field. Nevertheless, I took on the role they assigned me to.

It was two years later when I met Stephen. He was brilliant, if not entirely all put together. He had fantastic concepts, but was poor at execution. That became my role. He came up with the grand theories. I figured out how to get the details to work. We became quite a team. But it was only at the urging of my superiors that we became more than that.

I still remember when I was called in the Deputy Section Chief's office. It was a cold November morning. The Deputy Section Chief, Alistair Chambers, was visibly uncomfortable. His hand, grasping a cigarette, shook uncontrollably, flinging smoke in all directions. He began by apologizing. He professed that what he was proposing was not an order. The subtext told me otherwise. I was to seduce Stephen. Bed him. And, if things went right, take the next steps. Alistair explained why. Stephen was erratic, and had become more so. He needed a stabilizing influence in his life. And Stephen was head-over-heels for me, to the point where his sexual and emotional frustration, combined with his eccentricities, were seriously affecting his work. Bedding him, I was told, was practically a matter of national security. The CIA needed Stephen calm, centered, and dedicated to his mission.

If the CIA needed me, if Stephen needed me, then I was willing to oblige. It's not that I found him unattractive. Quite the opposite. And he was charming in a self-defacing sort of way. But the impetus for our romance, and ultimately our marriage, was a CIA-sponsored sham from the beginning.

In retrospect, the CIA was right. Without my steadying influence, Stephen would have burned-out, gone crazy, perhaps even killed himself or wound up institutionalized. And, while Stephen's great work was still years in the future, its seedlings had already been planted. The CIA had spotted them. So had I. Stephen was designing the code that would save the human race from itself.

_John Brown was John the Baptist of the Christ we are to see,_

_Christ who of the bondmen shall the Liberator be,_

_And soon thruout the Sunny South the slaves shall all be free,_

_For his soul is marching on._

If John Brown was John the Baptist, then I could be Mary. But which one? The reformed whore, or the mother of our savior? Perhaps I could be both.

* * *

It was in 1983 when my life took its next unexpected turn. By that time, I was the mother of two small children. And my youthful dreams of being a secret agent had settled, somewhat oddly, into a mundane domestic existence. Stephen and I went to work, did our jobs, came home, and took care of the children. Our marriage was not a particularly close or warm one, but it was functional. And, while I'm not sure if my brain was ever wired to love my offspring, I did not find spending time with them to be unpleasant. I guess you could say that I had maternal feelings for them, of some kind.

In any event, one February morning, I was summoned across the country to Langely itself. No explanation given. "You'll be told when you arrive" is all they said. And so I flew from Burbank to Washington, D.C., where a car met me at the airport and drove me to Langely. Once there, I was escorted into a conference room. The Director of the CIA was there. So was the Director of the NSA, the DNI, and three generals.

They swore me to utter secrecy, and then told me about the Ring. An underground network of spies from across the Warsaw Pact, dedicated to bringing down Communism from within. The United States had sponsored the Ring for some time. Funneled money and supplies to it. Now, the United States needed to appoint a new "Delegate," a kind of ambassador, to represent its interests and liaison with the Ring. They had chosen me. I protested. I was neither a secret agent or a diplomat. I was a computer programmer, who moonlighted as tech support. But that, apparently, is why they wanted me for the role. It would be easier for me to fly under the radar. My native Polish would help with communication. But, most importantly, as nothing but a computer geek, they saw me as no threat to betray the United States, or to do anything but follow their orders. I could be their puppet, wave the flag, and help the Ring to advance the American way. Fools.

_The conflict that he heralded he looks from heaven to view,_

_On the army of the Union with its flag red, white and blue._

_And heaven shall ring with anthems o'er the deed they mean to do,_

_For his soul is marching on._

* * *

I returned and broke the news to Stephen. I had been involuntarily promoted to Field Analyst. Or so I told him. In effect, I had been given a cover profession for the spy world to match my new cover profession for the real world, that of a Technology Consultant. The real truth, the existence of the Ring and my work with it, was so secret that I only spoke of it to a select few of my superiors. And then, only orally. Nothing was ever in writing.

In the Spring of 1988, I kissed Ellie, Chuck, and Stephen goodbye and left Burbank. I didn't know it would be for the last time. The trip was supposed to take two weeks. It wasn't until I got to Washington that I even learned the purpose of the trip – and again – only orally. I was called into the same conference room that I had sat in five years before.

I knew the general picture: the Ring had grown immensely powerful. It had so thoroughly infiltrated and corrupted the various Communist regimes from the inside-out that those regimes were poised to fall. Under Ring influence, if a revolution broke out, the military leadership and secret police of the various Eastern Bloc states would not use violence to quell them. They would side with the people, not the State. And our intelligence had revealed that, from behind the scenes, the Ring was helping to plan a series of revolutions that would bring Communism to its knees. None of that was a surprise. To the contrary, in my liaison capacity, I had personally helped to organize much of it.

No, the shock came from my orders. I was ordered to betray the Ring.

On the precipice of ultimate success, the U.S. Government no longer wanted Communism to fall. It preferred the status quo. And it feared that revolutions could devolve into chaos and civil wars. A particularly worry was that such disturbances could cause a refugee exodus that would overwhelm our allies in West Germany, Scandinavia, and Greece. The U.S. didn't want me to ignite the flames of revolution, it wanted me to extinguish them. And it was prepared to condemn tens of millions of people to the slavery of Communist oppression in order to preserve what it should have sought to burn to the ground.

And so I was ordered to take a crack team of American spies, report back-channel to "loyalists" in the Polish SB, betray the Ring's entire architecture, and then with the team of American spies help the SB hunt down any surviving Ring operatives. Solidarity would be crushed. Leaders of the would-be revolutionaries would be imprisoned. And the democratic sympathizers atop the military would be replaced by hard-liners who would happily slaughter protestors and dissidents.

A decision had to be made. And so I chose. I chose loyalty to freedom and liberty for half-a-continent. I chose the Ring. Sadly, my team paid the price for my loyalty, and for America's betrayal of its sacred pledge. I merely provided the information. The Ring would take care of the rest.

But what about me? My loyalty to freedom meant treachery to America. If I went back, it was likely that my superiors would discover the truth. At best, I would face lifetime imprisonment. At worst, a bullet in the brain. No, I could not go back. So I directed the Ring fake my own death. I lied down, glassy-eyed, drugged, next to the bodies of my murdered teammates. A little make-up, some smeared blood, and a few photographs did the rest.

It's not that I didn't have regrets. Despite my relatively undeveloped maternal instincts, I did think about Charles and Ellie. But soldiers give their lives for their countries all the time, their children be damned. If soldiers could die to make men bloody, then I sure as hell could live to make men free.

Stephen was another concern. Our work. The potential it held. But Stephen had calmed down considerably. Nearly fourteen years of marriage had made him stable, productive. His erratic behavior was a small fraction of what it used to be. I thought he could handle my departure. And as for our work? He still needed me to perfect his grand designs. But I could find the means to help him from afar, without him ever knowing. There were lots of naive computer programmers in the intelligence establishment. Many of them would take "hints," "help," and bolts of "inspiration" from dubious sources, if they thought it would advance their careers. Stephen's friend Howard Busgang was such a person. He would be my agent, my asset, without him ever realizing it.

And so, out of loyalty, some traitors would say that I committed treason.

_He captured Harper's Ferry, with his nineteen men so few,_

_And frightened "Old Virginny" till she trembled thru and thru;_

_They hung him for a traitor, they themselves the traitor crew,_

_But his soul is marching on._

* * *

It was November 8, 1989. For the first time in sixty years, since the Nazi-Soviet Pact, Poland was finally free. A non-Communist government was sworn in two months earlier, entirely peacefully. Better yet, the revolution which had begun in Poland was spreading like wildfire across Eastern Europe. It was from a Ring base in Hungary that we glued ourselves to the television screens, watching the Berlin Wall being torn down.

The mood was celebratory, euphoric. But it was also serious. Some of my compatriots argued that our work was finished. That the Ring's mission had been accomplished. Others pushed back. Eastern Europe was now free, or soon would be. But China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Cuba, and many other countries remained sewers of oppression. And some non-Communist regimes in Africa, South America, and the Middle East were little better. Perhaps even worse were the conflicts. The Iran-Iraq War had been fought to a bitter stalemate, with upwards of a million dead, while totalitarian leaders on both sides remained entrenched in power. And rumors of mass conflagrations in the Balkans and central Africa were picking up.

Eventually, I commanded the floor. I heard out both sides. I brokered peace amongst the various Ring factions. They even came together and elected me their Chair. And I set the Ring upon its new mission. We had freed Eastern Europe. Now we were going to free the world.

_Ye soldiers of Freedom, then strike, while strike ye may,_

_The death blow of oppression in a better time and way,_

_For the dawn of old John Brown has brightened into day,_

_And his soul is marching on._

**End excepts from the "Memoirs of Mary Bartowski, Chair of the Ring."**

* * *

July 17, 2003

Jeffrey Barnes knocked on the door of the non-descript office, shaking in terror. He knocked again, then opened the door half-way. "You sent for me, my Chair?"

Mary sat seated behind a modest desk in a small office in an anonymous office building. "Yes, come in. Make yourself at home."

Jeff sat down on the wooden chair abutting Mary's desk. "What's this about?"

Mary leaned back in her chair. "You came to us about four years ago under rather problematic circumstances, is that not correct?

Jeff nodded.

Mary flashed him half-a-smile and continued. "You stole from people that you shouldn't have, isn't that correct? The fact that you didn't know you were stealing from us is why you are still alive. Why we gave you the option of working off your debt."

Jeff nodded again. "But I've been useful. I've hacked, found information, dug up dirt on people for you. You gave me a purpose, a calling."

Mary smiled and nodded. "All true." She picked up a large manilla envelope and passed it across the desk. "Open it," she instructed. "This is your new assignment."

Jeff looked incredulous. "The kid? What did he do?"

Mary half-smiled and responded. "He did nothing, other than get kicked out of school. His father, on the other hand, is a very important person. That could make the kid important to us. . . and to our enemies. I want you to get a job where he works. Some big box store in Burbank. You are more than qualified. Hell, a troll would be qualified to work there. Shadow him. Report back to us on him periodically."

Jeff picked up the envelope again. "Will do," he responded. He got up, and was half-way out the door when the Chair spoke to him again.

"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Barnes. . . why do we call you the Mule? An unusual cover name, isn't it?"

Jeff turned his head back towards her. "Did you ever read Isaac Asimov? The Foundation series?," he asked.

"I can't say that I have. Should I?" Mary responded.

Jeff smiled a bit mischievously. "Nah," he answered. Then he walked out the door.

* * *

A/N 1: I had several goals in writing this story. One was to present a more complex, morally ambiguous, and more threatening Ring, rather than the two-dimensional cartoon organization we got in canon. I hope I'm succeeding. The second was to fix a what I considered a mistake in Season 4, where Mary is introduced as "just one of the bad guys," but we later learn was "really" a good guy all along. I thought that was a missed opportunity, and that the story would have worked better if she really was a "Big Bad." So here we are.

A/N 2: There were several versions of John Brown's Body that were sung during the Civil War era. The above is just one version. The music was later used as the setting for the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

A/N 3: It's a common misperception that only Jews were sent to the concentration camps. They were the primary victims, and the only one marked for complete genocide, but not the only ones persecuted. In Auschwitz, in addition to the one million Jews murdered, approximately 130,000 Poles (primarily political prisoners) were imprisoned, about half of whom died.

A/N 4: Given the subject matter of this chapter, my sense is that I won't get too many reviews. But please surprise me! And if someone could post to the Facebook site I'd appreciate it.


	16. Chuck vs The Great Commission

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

The drive back from Nevada was long, arduous, and quiet. The spectres of defeat and fear hovered over Chuck's face. Even Sarah, Casey, and Walt mostly gazed vacantly at the van's interior, the emotional coldness broken only when Sarah periodically grasped and squeezed Chuck's hand. Only Morgan seemed not to get it. His expression glimmered with excitement, as he prated on about being in a "real-life, live-action spy movie." But Casey's response of "zip it, moron," and threats to stick weapons in various orifices quickly put a stop to that.

About an hour into the drive, Chuck mysteriously grew a smile. He flipped opened his laptop, connected it to a damaged hard drive retrieved from the site, and began typing.

"Chuck, what is it?" Sarah asked.

"Can't talk, working." Chuck replied, his focus magnifying.

It was a few minutes after 6:00 a.m. when they finally rolled into Castle. General Beckman's face was already on the monitor as they descended the stairs.

"It sounds like a fucking disaster. Report. Now," she demanded.

Walt pepped up and answered her. "We stopped the Nevada cell, General. But Agent Montgomery's information was incomplete. He either did not know or did not inform us of other cells, around the world. We were unable to stop downloading from those locations."

General Beckman shook her head, aghast. "How bad is it?"

Casey responded to her. "Bad, ma'am. We identified over 8,000 other locations where prospective Ring agents received downloads. We don't know the size of those cells, but Captain Bartowski estimates that we could be dealing with over 300,000 Intersected Ring operatives."

The General responded skeptically. "That doesn't make any sense. We've underestimated the Ring, sure. But no organization of that size could stay beneath our radar."

"If I may, General," Chuck added, "I think I may know the answer."

"Proceed," General Beckman replied.

Chuck pulled open his laptop and began typing. On Castle's monitor, next to General Beckman's video feed, white spots began appearing on the globe.

"On the way back from Nevada, I wrote a script that's been able to geo-locate several of the locations, based on IP Addresses and other data. Then I cross-referenced it with . . ."

The General interrupted. "Enough with the jibber-jabber. Get to the point."

Chuck peaked up at her from her computer. "I don't think most of the downloadees were Ring agents. Or, at least they weren't before yesterday. Take a look here." Chuck pressed a button and, on Castle's screen, two Spanish language newspaper advertisements appeared, along with an image of a run-down down building. Chuck's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he flashed on Spanish.

"The ads you're seeing were publicizing an event at this community center last night, in Quito, Ecuador. It was, supposedly, a class on how to obtain a work visa for the United States," Chuck explained.

Chuck hit another button and an Urdu-language advertisement appeared on Castle's monitor, accompanying an image of a small store-front office. Chuck flashed again, this time on Urdu.

"The next advertisement I'm showing you appeared in newspapers distributed in Lahore, Pakistan. It advertised a seminar on some kind of multi-level marketing scheme which took place last night at this office."

Chuck typed frantically, and dozens of more examples appeared on the screen.

"General, these advertisements, these locations . . . they correlate perfectly to the download locations that I geo-mapped. From the looks of it, many – and perhaps _all _– of the people who got downloads last night aren't Ring agents. They're innocents . . . victims. They expected to attend some kind of class or event, and wound up with an Intersect download. Much like Bryce what did to me with the email. Only magnified with 2.0 skills and a dose of the brain-washing code that Roan spoke about."

The General's eyebrows raised and she took a deep breath. "How is that even possible? We had been led to believe that it took a special mind to handle the Intersect . . . that if you weren't unique, Captain Bartowski, that your particular skills were at least rare. Now you're telling me that hundreds of thousands of ordinary people got a Ring download, just for having the wrong evening plans?"

A familiar voice jumped in. "I think I have the answer," it said, as a live video feed of Stephen Bartowski appeared besides the General on Castle's monitors.

Morgan almost jumped out of his seat. "Holy shit, Chuck's dad is a spy too!"

Chuck whispered back at him, "Later buddy."

The General also reacted with surprise. "Mr. Bartowski, the elder. What are you doing here? I don't recall extending an invitation, much less giving you the passco. . ."

Stephen winked and emitted a half-grin. "Diane, come on. It's me."

The General waived her hand in the air. "Very well, go on. . ."

Stephen began explaining. "Most of the code got auto-wiped from the Nevada servers. But you can't delete data without leaving artifacts. That gave me a good estimate of the _size _of the download. In terms of lines of code, it's less than 0.1% of the original Intersect, and maybe 0.01% of the Intersect in my son's head. That's at a level that most people . . . most brains . . . could handle. I'm still studying the artifacts, but my sense is that the downloadees didn't get the intelligence data, the languages, or most of the other shit that you coerced my son into keeping in his brain. As best as I can figure, they just got a few skill-flashes, along with some code that I don't recognize."

The General shook her head again. "Recommendations, people?"

Silence gripped the room. After thirty seconds, the General broke it. "I see," she said. "Well, you won't make progress talking to me. Figure it out. And Stephen, I want you on the next plane to L.A. We will need you on the ground for this, working with Captain Bartowski. Dismissed." With that she ended her transmission.

Walt leaned his chair back and then stood up. "Get some sleep, everyone. We'll figure this out."

* * *

**Apartamente de Chuck y Casey**

Chuck lied flat on his back in bed, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, his eyes vacant of emotion. Sarah curdled up next to him, dressed in a tank top and pajamas.

"Penny, for your thoughts?," she said.

Chuck gasped quietly, letting the air out. He then responded. "It just, I didn't think it would be this difficult, ya know?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Chuck turned towards her and kissed her softly on the forehead. "I dunno. I guess I just thought that, once we finally got together, _really _together, that all our problems would go away. But we went from will-we-or-won't-we to we-did-and-now-we're-even-more-screwed, and not 'screwed' in a good way. Well, that too, but not what I mean."

Sarah stifled a laugh.

Chuck continued. "I mean, first Walt, and the handling, and Gracia and Joseph, and then the Red Test, and now this . . . My sister thinks that I've gone insane and that you're a sexual deviant, my government thinks that I'm its property, and we went from dealing with Beckman to being the puppets of Biggus Dickus."

"Huh?" Sarah asked.

"You know . . . Monthy Python . . . The Life of Brian . . . Biggus Dickus." Chuck answered.

Sarah shook her head as she nibbled on his ear. "Sorry sweety . . . you haven't nerdified me enough yet."

They lied next to each other in comfortable quiet. Eventually, Sarah spoke.

"Chuck, you know I'm not good with relationships. . but a lot of what you're describing, it's just life, you know?"

Chuck looked at her incredulously. "Feuding with the U.S. Government while fighting an evil organization hell-bent on world domination is just life?"

Sarah stifled another giggle. "Well, our circumstances are a _bit _extreme . . . but what I meant is that, in life, there are no happy endings. Nothing ever ends, Chuck. You swept me off my feet and carried me into the sunset, but the sun came up the next day. . . life went on. And I'm glad it did. Because if there's one thing about this crazy mess that I'm grateful for, it's that you're in my life."

She kissed him on the cheek, and snuggled up close to him. "Now, let's get some sleep. Defeating hundreds of thousands of Ring agents . . ."

"Ring victims," Chuck corrected.

Sarah acknowledged his point. "Ring victims . . . defeating them, _saving _them, it can wait until tonight."

"There's one more thing Sarah, something I didn't tell you... the Red Test. I passed. I mean, I sort of passed, when the Intersect took over and wouldn't let me kill him. But I was going to kill him. In my mind, I had made the decision. Am I a bad person? Have I become a bad person?"

"Shh... no," she answered, hugging him tightly. "You remain the best human being I've ever met."

With that, she hit a button by Chuck's bed to dim the lights and close the blinds.

Chuck remained awake, focusing his eyes on the ceiling. He pondered everything that had happened. If the best person that Sarah had ever met was a would-be assassin, that just proved to him how fucked-up this life was.

* * *

**The Courtyard Outside Casa Woodcomb**

Ellie sat besides the fountain outside her apartment, deep in thought. She barely noticed Walt passing her, on his way home.

"Good morning, Mrs. Woodcomb," he greeted cordially, tipping his hat to her. "Good morning," Ellie responded, half-heartedly.

Walt walked a few steps passed her, when a stray thought entered Ellie's mind. "Wait."

Walt turned around. "Yes, Mrs. Woodcomb?"

Ellie approached him. "You might say that I'm a meddler . . . and I know we don't know each other well, but I've been wondering something. You mentioned Sarah, your niece, the daughter 'you didn't have,' and then a daughter 'you did have.' I sensed some tension there. I wanted to kno. . ."

Walk took off his hat and shrugged. "You want to know what happened between me and my daughter? Well, that's . . . a private matter, Mrs. Woodcomb, I hope you understand."

Ellie pressed the issue. "Mmmph hmph. . . it's just, Sarah is practically family, which makes you family, and I want. . ."

Walt immediately analyzed a number of potential responses in his head. A trick he had learned long ago was to build some truth into every cover. And what he had said about his daughter was mostly true. They were not on speaking terms. They hadn't been for a while. She didn't know the details of what he did, but she knew the generalities. It horrified her. And, to be candid, he knew in his heart that he hadn't been the greatest, most supportive father in the world. But Walt could not tell Ellie all that. He needed a new strategy. He quickly settled on one.

"Ah. . . yes," Walt responded. "It's not pleasant for me to discuss. But, you see, she married a gook."

"I'm sorry, did you just say 'gook'?" Ellie jumped back, mortified.

Walt internally chuckled. A fictitious display of causal racism would preclude Ellie from interrogating him further, and potentially breaking down his cover. That suited his purposes. And, he surmised, Chuck's as well.

"Yes, I did," he grimaced. "Now good day, to you," he said, as he walked away.

Ellie bit her nails and returned to her apartment. Entering her bedroom, she paced frantically back-and-forth, piecing together the evidence in her mind.

It had been several weeks since the incident at the dry cleaner. She had given the Air Force uniform to Chuck. She had heard him stumble from lie-to-obvious-lie about the garment. She had heard Sarah jump in to "save" him by saying that she gets "turned on" by a 'man in uniform' and liked to 'role-play' with him. Saw her brother turn beat red with embarrassment at Sarah's remarks, while tripping over his words. He even made some comment about how it was a "good thing you didn't see the giant teddy bear." She didn't buy it for a second. Well, that's not quite right. She bought Chuck's embarrassment. That was genuine. But the explanations, from both Sarah and Chuck, they were hogwash. She was certain of it.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Not at Chuck . . . but at herself. For being so stupid, so gullible. For not noticing that _something _was seriously amiss, and had been for some time.

She mentally assembled the timeline: almost eight years ago, Chuck got expelled from Stanford under highly suspicious circumstances. Around the same time, he must have received a commission in the Air Force . . . while working a job at a retail electronics store that he was superbly overqualified for. He refused to date, and he didn't have much of a social life aside from Morgan. Often, he'd just hide in his room. He said he was playing video games. But was he? She was skeptical.

Something big changed two-and-a-half years ago. That's when Sarah magically walked into Chuck's life. It's when, at almost the same time, John Casey moved in across the courtyard. And it's when Chuck started acting _weird_. And weird, weird, not just 'having a girlfriend' weird.

There were all the late nights . . . and the early mornings, when Chuck _and Casey _would stumble into the apartment complex, _together_. There were all the body bruises and unexplained scars that she saw on her brother . . . _dammit, she was a doctor and had ignored them_. There were the times when Chuck wouldn't come home for days, and then been cagey about where he'd been. Often, she'd ask Chuck and Sarah about his absences and get inconsistent stories from. There were the calls from Morgan or the Buy More, asking for info on Chuck's whereabouts. _Chuck used to tell Morgan everything . . . heck, he used to tell me everything. _

She had ignored it because, on balance, they seemed so _good _for him. After five years of depression, Chuck starting living again. But her excitement about Chuck's happiness led her to overlook clues, staring right at her the whole time. Sarah worked in fast food, making hot dogs. Yet she drove a Porsche and looked like a supermodel. Casey was clearly a military man. And, from her sense, an officer, not an enlisted man. Yet he inexplicably seemed content to sell appliances for $11 an hour. And, almost overnight, he began spending enormous amounts of time with her brother – almost as much time as Sarah, perhaps even more time than Morgan. None of it made any sense. Casey and Chuck didn't even seem to _like _each other, at least not at first. Yet they spent time together, off of work, like best friends.

And now Walt and, she had just learned, his open and unapologetic racism. Chuck was a _good _person. Impeccably good. Even if the money was good, she couldn't fathom him working for a bigot. Sure, at the Buy More, the behavior of Jeff and Lester often descended into gross and often sexist behavior. But Chuck worked _with _Jeff and Lester, not _willingly for _them. The brother she knew wouldn't be working for a man like that.

Then there was the hussy in San Diego. Ellie didn't buy for a second that Chuck would be willing to sleep with other people, not even at Sarah's request, as part of some sick sexual game. Not her brother, not with how devoted he was to Sarah. Something else was going on.

But it wasn't just the people. It was the incidents. Weird incidents. Too many of them. First, she got poisoned with an unknown designer chemical, almost died, and then miraculously recovered. Then, they all got taken hostage and held at gunpoint at the Buy More over Christmas. Then, after being missing for almost 10 years, Chuck somehow managed to find her father. . . then the wedding.

Ellie's eyes bulged out of their sockets. _The wedding_. _Devon. _Specifically, how cool, how understanding, Devon had been everything . . . even Jeff and Lester ruining the ceremony. He was _Awesome_. But he wasn't Ghandi. But it wasn't just the ceremony or, rather, the _first_ ceremony. Somehow, on an hour's notice, Chuck managed to arrange a tastefully-decorated beach wedding _second _ceremony for dozens of guests. Then Chuck and Sarah bizarrely disappeared at the reception. And then . . . _Devon again_. He left his _own wedding_ reception, lied to me about an accident on the freeway . . . and got into a car with both her father _and Sarah_.

Ellie gasped with rage, covering her mouth with her hand. Whatever was going on, _Devon knew about it._ And she would find out.

That evening, she lit scented candles around the bedroom. She showed, splattered herself in Devon's favorite perfume, and slipped on a sensuous purple negligee. Wearing just the negligee, she put on a pair of steel-toed, high heel shoes. She marched out of the bedroom.

Devon was in the kitchen, fixing a snack. She approached him, wrapped her body around his, and began dragging him down the hall towards the bedroom.

"Babe?" he asked, wearing a dumbfounded but radiant smile.

"Shh . . . don't talk . . . not yet . . ." she whispered into his ear, before giving it a playful bite. Once in the bedroom, she threw him on the bed, and began softly kissing his neck. Slyly, she used her left hand to remove one of her steel-toed shoes. Grasping the shoe in her arm, she moved it up, until the heel abutted his testicles.

She stopped kissing him. Her voice grew cold, caustic, sharp.

"Now you can talk, Devon. In fact, unless you want me to cut through your balls, you can start by telling me everything you know about my family being spies."

* * *

**The Chamber of the Ring**

It had been three weeks since Mary had empowered her Revered Delegates with the Intersect, at the acceptable cost of their free will. They now obeyed her dictates to the letter. And she had made so much progress over the past few weeks. Refining the code. Tailoring it. Specializing it, for different purposes. Limiting the casual damage. And making the mind-controlling aspects both more subtle, and far more effective.

Now, she had convened the Chamber once again. She spoke, in fluent Esperanto, the one language that her Intersect downloadees could flash on. Roan and the Mule had assumed their customary places, flanking her _throne_. Yes, she viewed it as a _throne _now, not merely an elevated chair. She spoke:

"Each of you has been issued updated Intersect devices, enough to equip the new _recruits _in your territories. Use them. Consider this your Great Commission. You, and our new recruits, are not just my army. You are my Apostles. Follow my instructions, as you now must, and all the authority on earth will be given to us. Therefore go, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of our _truth_ and our _cause, and _teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you."

She descended the marble steps from her chair. Roan greeted her. "A bit dramatic, Messianic, wouldn't you say?"

She smiled back at him. "Perhaps. And I do have a flair for the dramatic. But nothing I said was inaccurate. Just as Christianity conquered Rome, so will our army, empowered by our customized Intersects, become an empire. And conversion is much less bloody than the alternatives, wouldn't you say?"

Roan nodded back at her. "Of course, my love."

* * *

A/N #1: The last chapter may have been hard to find (readership & reviews were both down 50%). Due to problems with the site, it didn't appear properly then got buried by numerous other fics. If you haven't read it, I'd recommend it, it largely serves as an origin story for this version of Mary, although it's kind of an odd/experimental chapter.

A/N #2: This chapter hints at one of the major themes I intended for this story: good relationship conflict didn't have to end with the WTWT. The show, instead, could have gone the route of "they did, but now they're more screwed," as the Government uses their feelings for each other to control them. If I had the time and patience, I would have ideally liked to explore this theme with far more depth & length. Instead, a mixture of time pressures and lackluster/mediocre feedback on the story resulted in me cutting a good chunk of that, along with a few side plots as I was toying with. I think we now only have 4 more chapters. Any guesses on how it ends?

A/N #3: There was some discussion on the Facebook page about whether it's permissible to continue/use other author's stories, characters, themes. My view is: "of course." In many respects, both this story and my previous story (Chuck: The Echo of Memory) weren't much more than first drafts of what I originally intended. I'm irritated, for instance, that Gracia in this story came across as more of a plot device than a living, breathing character - and Walt, as written, has considerably less nuance than the Walt I intended. If anyone ever wants to pick up or re-write any of my material - go ahead. I'd consider it an honor. And, besides, I don't own Chuck or these characters.

A/N #4: I'm debating a new teaser for this story, which fits better with what the story has become. Thoughts on this language?: "AU, veering off from Canon at the very end of Season 2. There's no Shaw, but other surprise traitors haunt the shadows as Chuck, Sarah, and Casey face the dueling threats from both the Ring and the United States Government. Note that the Ring in this story is a far more deadly, competent, and morally ambiguous organization than was presented on the show." Anyone have any better ideas?


	17. Chuck vs Walt

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

**Casa Woodcomb**

Ellie raced towards her apartment's door, clad in her scrubs. Just as she got to the door, the bell rung. Startled, she opened it.

"Dad?" she asked, "you're back?"

Stephen lifted his head, such that his Nebraska Cornhuskers baseball cap no longer obscured his eyes. He lifted up a bag emblazoned with the logo "IHOP." "This time, I brought pancakes," he said, shaking the bag excitedly.

Ellie bit her lip. "Sorry . . . I'm late for work. But tonight, dinner? We have a lot to discuss. I'll invite Chuck, Sarah, and her uncle too."

"Uncle?" Stephen queried.

"Bye," Ellie responded. She kissed him on the forehead and dashed out the door.

On her way to the hospital she pondered her good fortune. With her dad back in town, tonight would be the perfect time to bring everything out in the open.

* * *

**Apartamente de Casey y Chuck**

Sarah descended the stairs of the Casey-Bartowski bi-level apartment, draped in a luxurious red cotton robe. Her wet hair, just six minutes removed from the shower, glistened.

Casey was at his small dining room table, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. He perked up as he noticed her. "Coffee?," he asked, directing her to the brewed pot in the kitchen.

"Thanks," she answered, as she maneuvered her way into the kitchen and grabbed a mug.

Casey grumbled. "You know, other people do live here."

"Huh?," Sarah responded.

She heard Casey emit an audible groan. He responded. "I heard you. 'Interfacing' with the Intersect last night. Three times, was it?"

"Oh," she said, blushing.

"Where's lover boy now?" he asked.

"Still sleeping, why?"

Casey looked at his watch. "Check your phone. We've got a briefing with Beckman in twenty minutes."

* * *

**Castle**

Chuck, Casey, and Sarah entered Castle together. Walt and Stephen were already at the conference table reviewing reports. Morgan was there too, playing with his phone.

General Beckman appeared on-screen. "Pleasure for all of you to join us," she directed, "please sit down. I have news."

The team took their seats. General Beckman seemed oddly stoic. Sarah spotted the signs immediately: General Beckman had her "spy-face" on. Something was wrong. And the General was trying hard to suppress emotions which simmered just below the surface.

"As you may know," General Beckman began, "I am a political appointee. I serve at the pleasure of the President. The President has deemed that my service will end next week, once my successor is formally appointed."

Chuck flinched back, surprised. "I don't understand," he said.

The General shook her head. "This was to be expected, Chuck. I was nominated by former President Bush. The new President, Obama, is entitled to have his own choice fill my role. Besides, as some of you _may know_," she looked intensely at Casey, "my political views do not align with the current Administration. I was on the shortlist to be President McCain's Secretary of Defense. Frankly, I am surprised that it took so long for President Obama to name my successor."

Mixed emotions swirled in Chuck's head. The General had been so cruel, so callous to him, generally treating him as little more than the government's property. Yet, for some reason, he could not help but feel sympathy for the woman. "So what happens to you?" he asked.

The General nodded at him. "I am to be retired, with full honors and a generous pension, Captain Bartowski. A long life on a Florida beach awaits me."

Chuck glanced at Walt, who was smiling softly. Whatever was happening, it didn't seem to affect him. Chuck then looked back at the screen. "And Walt? He was your choice."

The General answered him. "I've spoken with my successor, General David Mills. . . "

Morgan tried to stifle a laugh, interrupting. "Heh, General Mills. Were General Motors and General Electric busy?"

"How about general disregard for my humanity?" Chuck added, sarcastically.

"As I was saying," the General retorted, "I expect Agent Hubbard to stay where he is. Although Agent Hubbard was my choice, we don't share the same politics. In any event, his position is non-political. I've already spoken with General Mills about this, and he agrees."

Chuck looked skeptically at the screen. "General, I have to ask. Isn't this a bit coincidental? I mean, a week ago, the Ring downloads a mind-controlling Intersect into God knows how people, and now you get replaced?"

General Beckman lifted her left eyebrow. "And you think my successor might be a Ring agent, either willingly or unwillingly?"

Chuck didn't answer. But his facial expression gave his concern away.

The General's tone sharpened. "Stop. Right. There. Captain Bartowski, there is no grand conspiracy here. In a democracy, political appointees come-and-go. This has been in the works for some time. General Mills is just as much of a patriot as I am. You will owe him the same loyalty . . . scratch that, you will owe him the loyalty that you _should _have showed me. With that, I will leave you in Agent Hubbard's care." The screen when dark, and the team faced one-another.

Walt spun around in his chair. He wore what looked like a devilish grin on his face. "You won't get rid of me that easily, Captain Bartowski. Now, suggestions on how to do with the Ring's massive Intersect download?"

Silence filled the room.

Walt studied their faces. "Captain Bartowski, my understanding is you were working on some kind of cell-phone tracker?"

Chuck nodded. "It's still in the early stages, but yes. Even in the developing world, most people carry phones that give off continuous location data. By tracking phones, we should be able to figure out most of the people who got downloaded."

"Gooood, gooood," Walt replied, imitating Palpatine's voice from Revenge of the Sith. "I want you to get me a list of who attended."

"Dude, creepy reference," Morgan said.

Stephen turned towards him. "For what purpose, _Walt_? And, seriously, openly embracing the Dark Side?" Stephen asked. As Stephen spoke, the word 'Walt' was tinged with bitterness. Hearing his father's tone of voice, Chuck took a mental note. There was some history there.

"I felt it appropriate," Walt responded, "considering what comes next. _We're going to wipe them out, all of them_," shifting back into the Palpatine voice.

The entire team did a double-take.

Walt laughed, then turned serious. He proceeded to explain his plan, matter-of-factly, as if he was providing instruction on how to fill out tax forms. "Drones, Captain Bartowski. Augmented with strike teams, and support from allied governments. You identify them. I'll arrange for their liquidation."

Chuck protested, aghast. "We're talking about 300,000 people. . . Innocents . . . Besides, even if I wanted to, I can't, Dad made sure of that . . . the bug, in the Intersect, I can't kill people."

Walt turned skeptically towards Stephen. "Is that true, Mr. Bartowski? Exactly _how _does your ingenious frustration of the Intersect work? What are the limits? Your son won't be pulling the trigger. Just providing me with a list of names."

Morgan began rambling, in a Pottsylvanian accent. "Moose? Who's killing Moose? I just chopping down tree. Is my fault Moose happen to be under it?"

Stephen hesitated, and began waiving his hands in front of him erratically. "Well, I've never tested the limits of it . . . I was sort of hoping I wouldn't have to."

"No matter," Walt answered. "You will simply remove the _defect_."

"I will not," Stephen responded defiantly. "And better men than you have tried to test me."

Walt snarled back. "Is that a threat Mr. Bartowski? You do know what the difference is between us, don't you?

Stephen answered with non-responsiveness.

Walt's right lip curled as he continued. "When I make a threat, Mr. Bartowski, I follow through. . . . As for the 'innocents, as your son called them, I do not relish the thought of killing anyone. Much less people without moral blame. But the facts are these: irrespective of whether these 'innocents' were simple peasants a week ago, they are now a threat. A super-powered one at that. And they work for the enemy. It is our job to eliminate that threat. If anyone has a better, less bloody solution, I am open to ideas."

Walt waited three seconds. No one answered.

"Good, then were agreed," he said, emotionlessly. Then he reached into his briefcase, pulled out a large white envelope, and passed it across the table to Sarah.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "Our team cleaning out the remnants of the old Castle found this. It got misfiled. But I believe it belongs to you."

Not yet looking at the envelope, Sarah questioned him. "What is it?"

Walt brushed the air with his fingers. "I don't have the foggiest."

Sarah looked down at the envelope. It had one word written on it, in cursive. "Sarah."

She recognized the handwriting. She spoke his name, almost inaudibly, under her breath.

"Bryce."

* * *

**Living Room, Apartamente de Casey y Chuck**

The team, minus Walt and Morgan, reconvened at Casey's apartment after the meeting.

"I'm going to kill him," Sarah said. "And this time I'm pretty sure it won't be metaphorical."

Chuck started pointing towards his ear and making an "mmphh hmmm" noise.

"Son, what is it son?"

Chuck grabbed a notepad and scribbled something down. He passed the note to his father. Seeing it, his father understood. Stephen reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device with a blue button. He pressed it.

"There, that should disable the surveillance for about twenty minutes." Stephen declared. "Even the bug in your ear."

"How?" Chuck asked, with wonder.

Stephen exhaled. "Heh. There's a reason I managed to stay hidden for close to 10 years."

Chuck acknowledged his father's point, then began waving his arms into empty space as if to make a point. "Guys, no one is killing anyone. Not Walt. Not us."

Casey grunted. "What do you suggest, Bartowski? Ask our little Napoléon, pretty please, to not commit mass murder? And, while we're at it, beg him to not threaten your father, or plead with him not to turn you into a killer?"

"I don't know," Chuck responded, "but I'll find a way."

* * *

**Casa Woodcomb**

Ellie finished her shift and returned home at 6 p.m. Dinner was set for 7:30. No time to bake anything. She rushed together some minute roasts, sautéed the vegetables, and steamed the rice. She grabbed an open bottle of wine, sprinkled a few drops on the roast, then gulped down a generous amount herself. It would be a hell of a lot easier to do this drunk, she thought. She drank more wine as she set the table and lit the candles.

Devon got home at 7:15. Chuck and Sarah arrived together, right on the dot at 7:30. Walt followed a few minutes later. Stephen ran late, but got there by 7:40.

Dinner started swimmingly. Appetizers were eaten and enjoyed. Then, right after Ellie brought out the roasts, she decided it was time to drop the bomb. She brought her wine glass to her mouth, took one final large sip, placed the glass down, and spoke:

"So, um, Sarah, Walt. Can you tell me? How long has Chuck been an undercover government operative on a joint CIA/NSA taskforce? And what the hell is my father's role in this whole conspiracy?"

Chuck practically choked, then spritzed his wine everywhere. Sarah, unable her maintain her spy face, or even her composure, audibly gasped. Only Walt seemed unaffected. If anything, a tiny grin emerged around his lips.

"I don't know what you mean . . ." Sarah protested, vainly.

Ellie took another generous drink from her wine glass. "Come now, you do realize that I'm a trained neurologist? I'm not a fool, although I feel like I've been one for the past two-and-a-half years. Besides, after piecing together most of it, I got Devon to spill the beans last night."

Devon looked apologetically at Chuck. "Sorry, bro. She threatened my . . . Awesomeness."

Ellie pressed her advantage. "What I don't know are the specifics. Now tell me."

Ellie finished barking orders, breathed deep and rewarded herself with more wine.

Chuck stammered. "Ellie . . . I can explain . . . it's not what you're thinking . . ."

Walt interrupted him. "Allow me, Captain Bartowski. Ms. Woodcomb, Mr. Woodcomb, for your own safety, I had hoped you would never need to hear what I am about to tell you. However, since you have surmised many of the pertinent facts yourselves, it appears I have no choice. In brief . . . your brother is a genuine American hero."

"Go on," Ellie prodded, her eyes bulging.

Walt's face sparkled with joy and admiration, as his eye twinkled. "As I'm sure you know, your brother is an exceptionally gifted individual. His gifts, his intelligence, his insight, they came to the Government's attention. So, eight years ago, we – meaning the National Security Agency, via the United States Air Force – reached out to him with a proposition. We needed an analyst who could help us decipher and assess extremely sensitive intelligence data. In fact, the nature of the data was so sensitive that our chosen operative needed to work undercover. Your brother, being the remarkable human being that he is, volunteered. He did so knowing that, to build his cover, we would arrange to get him expelled from Stanford on bogus charges. I don't know too many patriots who would have agreed to these terms. . . but your brother did. He was commissioned a 2nd Lt. in the Air Force, seconded to the NSA, and assigned a cover job at the Buy More. Meanwhile, on nights, weekends, and during fictitious Buy More 'installs,' he worked with us – providing analysis of unparalleled insight and quality."

"Something changed about two-and-a-half years ago, didn't it?," Ellie asked.

Walt nodded, his eyes still glowing with pride. "We recognized something special in your brother. That he could be more than an analyst. We assigned two agents to work with him – you know them as Sarah and Casey. The general gist is that Chuck would decipher the intelligence, and Sarah and Casey would follow-up on it. Chuck would sometimes join their engagements, stationed in a van, providing guidance to them over real-time comms. My god, you wouldn't believe what your brother accomplished . . . but, suffice it to say, he has saved many thousands of lives."

Ellie examined Walt skeptically. "So he stayed in the van, the whole time? He came back with scrapes, bruises . . . too many of them."

Chuck groaned. "It's never safe in the van."

Walt laughed. "Your brother has a point. There were a few occasions when he took action to protect the security of his team. Sometimes, that resulted in some bumps and bruises. . . nothing too serious."

Ellie swallowed more wine. "Umm . . . hmph . . . and how does the supercomputer in his brain play into all of this?"

Walt's expression quickly turned to one of frustration and fear. "Damnit," he muttered under his breath. Then he quickly course corrected. "Oh, you know about that."

Ellie nodded 'yes,' as she turned towards Stephen with a sharply inquisitive glare.

Walt paused for a moment while his mind raced. Eventually he spoke. "And I gather from your expression that you know that your father designed it?"

Ellie nodded 'yes' again.

Walt took a deep breath. He saw both Chuck and Sarah about to answer but shushed them down with his hands. He spoke, his unmodulated tone conveying the undercurrent of a threat. "That is top secret information. Knowing it puts you in danger," he responded.

Walt scanned the room to pick up visual clues from the other dinner guests, then continued. "But since you seemingly know already, yes, your father – like your brother – is also a brilliant man. So brilliant, that some very bad people wanted to harm him a long time ago. He ran, he left, to _protect _you and your brother from them. But life sometimes turns out in ways we don't expect . . . despite your father's best efforts, despite the Government's best efforts, a rogue operative learned that your brother's very special mind could handle the remarkable computer that your father designed. And he foisted it upon your brother, against his will. That agent is now dead. But your brother, unfortunately, bears the scars of his handiwork."

Ellie drank another large sip of wine. She probed Walt. "This computer. What does it do?"

Walt breathed again and answered her. "Mostly, it stores data . . . allows your brother to connect-dots in a way that helps us stop very bad people from doing very bad things. It also gives your brother certain _abilities_ . . . languages mostly. For instance. . . ." Walt cleared his throat and then began talking in Chinese. "You proceed from a false assumption. I am a Vulcan. I have no ego to bruise."

Chuck's eyes spun into the back of their sockets as he flashed on the language. He answered Walt, in Chinese. "You're trying to pretend that logic alone dictates your actions?"

Walt answered him. "That's not the correct response from Kirk."

Chuck glared at him. He continued, in Chinese. "I know. And, for the record, you never were and never will be my friend."

Walt barked back. "I'm not trying to be your friend, Captain Bartowski. But someday, you'll learn that I truly was one."

"Awesome," Devon exclaimed, utterly ignorant of the context of their conversation.

Ellie's eyes flew open in amazement. "Chuck, you can do all that . . . that easily? How many languages do you know now?"

Chuck eyes fluttered again as he snapped back into English. He felt a slight headache, but shook it off and began counting with his fingers. "I'm not really sure. I mean, isn't a language just a dialect with an army and navy? Is Moroccan Arabic the same as Modern Standard Arabic? Is Scots a real language? Is Biblical Hebrew the same as Modern Hebrew? I mean, there's probably mutual intelligibility going back to the Biblical, but not forward to the Modern. . ."

Sarah interrupted him. "Chuck, your rambling."

Chuck caught himself. "Right. So, um, depending on your definition, probably about 120."

Walt clarified: "It helps with the analysis. No matter who are enemy is, Chuck can read and understand their communications like a native."

Ellie scanned the room again. "So you're telling me that my brother is some kind of Secret Agent –"

Walt interrupted. "More like Secret Analyst."

Ellie scoffed. "Fine, Secret Analyst. And all he does is sit in a cubicle and analyze data most of the time? He's saving lives? And he's not in danger?"

Chuck answered her. "No, that's not what we're saying." Chuck's eyes darted at Walt. He saw Walt glaring at him, almost angrily.

Chuck continued speaking. "I don't have a cubicle . . . I mostly work at a conference table." As he finished, he cracked a nervous smile.

Ellie's eyes narrowed. "And that time you went catatonic, and Devon had to leave his own wedding reception to save you?"

Chuck got a little flustered, but answered. "That was a one-time thing, Ellie. . . I promise. It was a bug. Dad fixed it. . . Dad, you tell her."

Stephen laughed nervously. "It's true, Ellie. It was just that one time. . . horrible timing."

Ellie's entire body relaxed, most of her tension gone. Then she squinted at Sarah. "Ok, fine. . . but there's still something I don't understand, Sarah. Based on what Walt – who I assume is not really your uncle – just said, you were _assigned_ to my brother? Your whole relationship is fake?"

Sarah blushed. "It started that way," she confessed. Then she quickly clarified. "Well, it was _supposed_ to start that way. Deep down, it was always real for me."

Ellie's tone grew sharper. "Do you love my brother, Sarah?"

Sarah gurgled her wine. Chuck tried to run interference, he spoke, rambling: "We have used labels. . . we haven't needed to. We're good, Ellie. . . "

Sarah breathed deep. "I've been a spy my whole adult life. I'm not sure if I know what that word means. But here's what I do know. Your brother is my first thought when I wake up, and my last thought before I drift off to sleep. When I think of him, I do a tiny little dance inside my mind. I would take a bullet for him. And, while I don't know what my future will bring, I know that I want Chuck in it."

Ellie smiled gleefully then squealed as she lifted her wine.

The evening ended with everyone, save Ellie and Devon, leaving Casa Woodcomb and convening in the courtyard.

Chuck approached Walt and touched his shoulder, affectionately.

"Walt, I know we haven't always seen eye-to-eye. But I just wanted to say thank you, for what you said in there. To Ellie."

Walt shook off Chuck off nonchalantly. "My new cover story? Think nothing of it, Captain Bartowski. You may not believe this, but I've always wanted you happy. Happy agents are more effective agents. So, if giving your sister_ just enough of the truth _gets her off your case, and my own, then that's a win-win."

"Well, thank you again," Chuck added.

Walt's grin turned mischievous, as he looked at both Chuck and Stephen. "Besides, now that your sister knows about the Intersect . . . your father has an additional _inducement _to remove the defect that inhibits your offensive capabilities, Captain Bartowski."

Stephen interjected. "You mean killing people."

Walt's grin was now a wide smile. "Why yes," he said. His smile faded into a fake-pout, as he continued speaking. "After all, it would be such a _shame_ if we had to put the Doctors Woodcomb in protective custody . . . a bunker perhaps . . . for their own protection, of course."

Stephen's hand turned into a fist as he lunged towards Walt. "YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Casey grabbed him and held him back. "Easy there, soldier, don't give him the satisfaction. . . . or an excuse to have you locked up. You and numb-nuts will find another way."

* * *

**Castle, Three Days Later**

The team assembled in Castle, following a surprise summons from General Beckman. She greeted them harshly.

"Some disturbing information has come to my attention," she declared. "One of our analysts has uncovered disturbing social media activity by a member of this team."

Team Bartowski responded with befuddlement.

The General growled at them. "_Walt_. Do you care to _explain _how these accounts were all traced back to you?"

She pressed a button. On Castle's monitor appearing a dizzying array of social media activity attributed to three separate accounts: a "Ray Sist," a "Kay Lansman," and an "Arya N. Power." The accounts were filled with bigoted memes, jokes, and pictures.

Walt looked flabbergasted. "General, I don't know what you mean."

"Really?" the General asked, sarcastically. She clicked a button. A deep-fake video on screen, which appeared to depict President Obama sexually cavorting with farm animals. "Is this how a CIA officer is supposed to honor his Commander in Chief?"

Walt barked back. "I voted for the damned man. None of this stuff is mine."

The General shot back at him. "The forensic evidence is conclusive. It was linked to your computer. The postings, they go back years."

Walt turned towards Chuck and Stephen, accusing them. "You two. You sniveling, traitorous pieces of shit. You did this. You framed me. And for what, because Chuckie-poo doesn't want to be a real spy? Doesn't want to get his hands dirty? Doesn't want to do what it takes to protect this country?"

Chuck and Stephen backed off, protesting their innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about" Chuck said. Stephen nodded, ambiguously.

Walt careened his neck and focused back on the General. "General, I've been with the Company for over 30 years. There's not one trace of me ever engaging in unethical conduct . . . much less this kind of behavior. Surely, it's obvious to you that I've been framed – likely by the father-son shits sitting next to me. This is my career here."

The General replied sternly. "And you think that baseless accusations against your teammates is the way to save your career? Come now, _Mr._ Hubbard. Besides, your 'not one trace' comment isn't really true, is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Walt quipped.

Chuck volunteered. "Well, in all candor, Ellie told me that Walt used a racial slur directed against Koreans a few days a few days ago."

"That was for cover!" Walt insisted.

Sarah jumped in. "And, during the Benveniste mission, he made a comment to me about keeping my distancing because he didn't want Gracia to see the 'Blond Aryan Goddess.'"

"That was to protect the mission!" Walt protested.

The General paused and considered the situation. "I see. _Mr. _Hubbard, in terms of your position with the CIA, you will need to sort things out with your own Agency. As for this team, I've consulted with General Mills, and he wants you out." The General turned her head to face Casey. "Lt. Col. Casey, for now, you are the acting head of this mission. Use your power wisely. Dismissed."

* * *

**Living Room, Apartemente de Casey y Chuck**

Team Bartowski assembled at Chuck's and Casey's apartment later that night to celebrate. They banged their beers together.

"Cheers," Casey exclaimed, a cigar in his mouth. "Clever idea, you and your father . . . no one got hurt."

Chuck shook his head. "It wasn't our idea. This wasn't me. I've spoken with my Dad, this wasn't him either."

"Heh," Casey remarked, "maybe Walt is a racist scumbag after all."

Chuck responded with a look of guilt. Sarah reached over and affectionately touched his arm.

"Chuck, what's wrong?" she asked.

"This wasn't our doing," Chuck explained, "but I don't think Walt was lying. Something doesn't smell right here. Walt's many things . . . but he's not stupid. Those posts, they were stupid. I bet, if I investigate, I could prove his innocence. His career really is on the line."

Casey looked at Chuck almost with disdain. "Don't be a moron. The man manipulated Sarah, and threatened you, repeatedly. He even threatened Ellie. Oh, and by the way, he was plotting mass murder. Which, I remember, you disapprove of. The universe just gave you a gift."

Chuck responded sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess you're right." The guilt remained plastered on his face.

**Later That Night, Apartamente de Casey y Chuck**

Sarah called out to Chuck from atop his bed. "Are you coming to bed?"

Chuck sat, transfixed as his computer. "I figured it out."

"Figured what out?" Sarah asked.

"Walt. The social media pages. The hacking. It was subtle, almost beautiful in a way. A true artist. I get why the NSA analysts thought it was genuine."

"They're fake? And you can prove it?" Sarah questioned

Chuck swiveled around in his chair to face her. He nodded affirmatively.

"So what are you going to do about it?" She asked.

Chuck sighed. He looked up briefly at the ceiling as if for guidance. "Nothing. Casey's right. The guy was an ass. Think of what he did to us? What he threatened to do to Ellie? To the Ring's victims? Maybe two wrongs can make a right. And is it really deception if I just say nothing?"

"Ok," Sarah responded.

"That's it?" Chuck asked.

"That's it," she answered. "This is your decision. I'll support you. . . but there is something I want to show you."

"What?"

Sarah pulled out the white envelope with her name on it. "The message I received a few days ago . . . it's from Bryce."

Chuck looked incredulous. "Bryce? He faked his death, _AGAIN_?"

Sarah looked a little somber. "No. He's dead. It was sent before, well, you know."

She opened the envelope and removed a flash drive. "The message was for me, but I don't think Bryce would mind if you watched it."

She walked over to Chuck's computer and inserted the drive. A few clicks later, and a recorded video message from Bryce Larkin appeared. He was wearing the same suit that he died in. He looked a bit frantic, and a bit sad. As if he just had his heart broken.

"Hi Sarah. I don't have much time. They are uploading me with the new Intersect in about an hour. I don't know when, or if, I'll see you again. But I just wanted to let you know . . . you're making the right decision. I see it in your eyes, Chuck makes you happier than I could have possibly imagined. But it's more . . . Sarah, you're took good for this life. Chuck's too good for this life. And he's a better, kinder, more decent man than I ever could hope to be. Hell, Chuck Bartowski is the best human being I know. I wish you all the happiness in the world with him. Goodbye, Sarah." The video ended with Bryce's arm reaching out to turn off the camera.

Chuck seeped it all in. "I know what I have to do," he said, sighing.

* * *

**Home of Walt and Meredith Hubbard, Burbank, California**

Chuck knocked on the door of Walt's home. Merry, Walt's wife, opened the door. "Chuck? I'm surprised to see you here," she stated.

"Can I speak with him?" Chuck asked.

Using her arms, Merry welcomed him into their house. She pointed Chuck in the direction of the dining room. "He's in there," she said.

Chuck walked over. Walt had filled a 12-oz tumbler about 2/3rs of the way through with Scotch. The mostly empty bottle sat next to him on the table. Walt was sipping his drink, staring off into the air.

"It wasn't me," Chuck said.

Walt didn't respond, or even turn around to face him.

Chuck breathed deep. "But I found proof that you didn't do it. Here." Chuck walked over to Walt and handed him a flash drive. "Take this to Beckman, or to Mills, or to the CIA," Chuck instructed, "you'll get your job back . . . your position with the Team back."

Walt scoffed, not facing him. He took another drink. "I'm a WASP. We drink," he commented irrelevantly.

Chuck exclaimed louder. "Didn't you hear me? We can fix this."

Walt finally acknowledged Chuck's presence and turned around. Walt chuckled, then looked up at his former report and part-time protégé. "When Beckman first broke the news, I was pissed, sure. But a part of me, a _small _part, was also proud. . . proud of you. You had figured out a way to take someone you perceived as an adversary off-the-board – through a mix of ingenuity and deception. I was impressed. I thought I had turned you into a real spy." Walt laughed again, sarcastically. "Guess I was wrong about that too."

Walt took a large gulp from his tumbler. "Don't get me wrong, Captain Bartowski. I appreciate what you're doing here . . . especially given our _disagreements_. But, if anything, this visit proves both that you are not a spy, and I am not the right guide for you. Either way, my place on the team has not proven _productive_, at least not in the way I had hoped."

Walt downed the remainder of his scotch, then poured another glass. "I had hoped to use you as our weapon against the Ring. But they are too powerful . . . and you are too _weak_. Give me your evidence. Maybe I'll use it to negotiate for a better pension. Perhaps I can join Diane on her beach. Sitting around, doing nothing for twenty years before I die."

Walt's voice reeked of disgust. "Or maybe I could use my time to try to fix the shitstorm of a clusterfuck relationship that I have with my kids. Bleh . . . Who am I kidding. They are a lost cause . . . to me anyway. But that's all besides the point. You don't need to hear about my troubles. My role on this assignment is over. You've won, Captain Bartowksi. Your childish morality has defeated me."

Walt looked at the corner of his dining room, where an American flag stood. "And god I hope you haven't damned all of us."

He took another gulp. "I do have one question for you, Captain Bartowski. I threatened your sister and her husband. By coming here, by offering to _save _me, you placed them in jeopardy. Why?"

Chuck swallowed air and breathed deeply. "I know, but I suppose I have faith that things will work out for the best." he responded.

Chuck paused a few seconds to frame his next words. He looked around the house. It looked so much like the Hubbard house in Fairfax, Virginia, back when he first met Walt. Just transplanted to the West Coast. The same pictures. The same worn couch. Merry. The same, sort-of spy-ish wife. Chuck had never wanted to be a spy. He downloaded the new Intersect on instinct. To save Sarah. To save Casey. And to stop whomever the bad guys were who wanted to take it. But that first night in Fairfax, parts of him wanted this life. Parts of him wanted to be Walt. He glanced around the house again. He studied it. The normalish surroundings camouflaging a life of deception. And the bitter, aging, drunken shell of a nerd sitting in front of him. The man who had lived this life. Chuck turned to Walt, and answered his question. "The thing is, Walt. I saw my future. I saw you. And I realized, the ends . . . they don't justify the means."

Walt laughed, and drank more scotch. "Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny? Touche, Captain Bartowski."

* * *

**The Chamber of the Ring**

Jeff sat at computer, insider the Chamber of the Ring, as Roan hunched over his shoulder looking at the screen. Roan held a glass of seltzer in his right hand. Computer code was displayed on screen, nothing readable to a normal human mind.

Jeff cranked his neck to look up at Roan. "So why did you want me to target this Hubbard guy? Plant the false profiles? Is he a threat to us?"

Roan laughed. "Far from it. He's predictable, and nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is. We've been able to use that to our advantage." He took a sip from the seltzer.

"Why then?" Jeff prodded.

Roan laughed again. "Mostly because he's a dick. And I thought it would be funny." Roan pulled his pocket watch from in inside coat pocket. He opened up. Inside, affixed to the watch cover, was a photograph of a young woman in her early 20s. She was wearing mid-1990s fashion. Her brown, curvy hair, reached down to her shoulders. Roan looked at the photograph with regret. "And because I owed him one, for something personal. But our good friend Charles . . ."

Roan did not finish the sentence when Jeff jumped in, Jeff's eyes glowing with admiration. "Proved that he's everything I said he was. I told you, you worked with the man briefly. I spent seven years with him. His innate goodness. His moral clarity."

Roan turned back towards Jeff. "To what end, Mr. Barnes?"

Jeff smiled fondly back at his old friend. "He's the one we need. The one that will save us all."

"From her?" Roan queried.

"Especially from her." Jeff answered.

Roan smiled and nodded back at the Mule. "We are in agreement, Mr. Barnes."

Roan lifted up his glass of seltzer, as if to make a toast, then knocked it back and swallowed the remaining mouthfuls.

* * *

A/N 1: Most likely just three more chapters left. They are tentatively titled: (1) Chuck vs. Buymoria; (2) Chuck vs. The One Ring To Rule Them All; and (3) Chuck vs. The End of History.

A/N 2: One commentator was surprised that there were so few chapters left, because it's seems like we're still in the "middle" of everything. He raised a valid point. The overall arc would probably have worked better if I dabbled in some small, happy spy-missions towards the beginning, and added more successful spy missions now with the team adjusting to the new "status quo" (_i.e._, an army of brainwashed Ring agents/victims). That might have lightened the tone of the story (which got darker than I intended), and added more nuance to Walt by showing him actually trying to train/develop Chuck. Alas, I didn't go that route - partially because I couldn't think of those stories to write, partially to make sure that I actually finished this story rather than getting distracted. Plus, the mixed/lackluster feedback has somewhat reduced my incentive to write. But hey, I don't own squat. So if anyone ever wants to take the general ideas in this story and expand upon them/change them . . . go right ahead. I'd be honored.


	18. Chuck vs The Suicide Mission

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money off this

* * *

**Castle**

"Two months and no plan." Casey protested, to the team assembled around the Castle conference table. He turned his head, to look at the tall, curly haired man sitting across from him. "Chuck, what about that cellphone tracker program you were working on?"

Chuck shook him off. "It's a dead end. Even if we could track all of them, and we can't . . . It's like I was saying before . . . these people, they're innocents. We can't kill them. Besides . . ."

"Besides _what_?" Casey prompted.

Chuck breathed deep. "We've gotten reports, well . . . the _Intersect _has processed data . . . people around the world doing incredible things. People who were nowhere near any of the download sites." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

Sarah interjected. "We think there might have been subsequent downloads that we missed. Either that or . . ."

Casey got the gist. "They're converting people. Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers."

Chuck peaked his head up. "You, with the sci-fi reference?"

Stephen Bartowski shushed everyone down. He got up and started to pace, his movements erratic. "There's another way . . . a way to end all of this. Peacefully. I removed the Intersect from Charles' head once. I think I can do it for everyone. . . for the whole world. Whomever might be _infected_."

"How?" Casey asked.

Stephen began rubbing his chin as he continued to pace. "A satellite upload. We tap into all the major communications systems . . . we broadcast a frequency at intermittent bursts . . . every TV, every monitor, every electronic billboard on the planet picks up and transmits our signal . . . presto, no more Intersects."

"Dad, that's amazing! Can you do that?" Chuck asked.

Stephen turned around and began pacing the opposite direction. "I think so. But there's a problem. I don't know what's in this new Intersect. What we retrieved from Nevada. It's given me a head-start. But the code was corrupted. There's a lot missing. If I tried to design a removal program now . . . I wouldn't know what to remove. And if I get it wrong, the effects . . . they could be catastrophic." He began pulling his hair out. The stress had gotten to him.

Casey probed. "How so?"

"We're talking about doing this to the whole damn planet," Stephen commented. "If I get it wrong, there could be brain damage on a massive scale. Plus there would be . . . consequences. Epileptics, people with other conditions . . . My program needs to be perfect. And, to do that, I need a pristine copy of the source code they implanted in everyone."

Morgan turned towards his best friend's father. "Can't we just yank it out of a captured Ring agent?"

Stephen kept pacing, now looking up at the ceiling. "It doesn't work like that. The Intersect is download-only into humans. Not upload. Always has been. We need the original code that they've been sticking in people."

Casey grunted. "Where are we going to get that?"

Stephen's pace became more frantic, his movements even more turbluent, as his arms began shaking. "This is the part of the plan you won't like it . . . I don't like it. . . there's only one place to get that code."

Casey groaned then grunted again. "The Ring. Their HQ."

"Do we even know where that is?" Chuck asked. "I mean, if we did, wouldn't we have just bombed it ages ago?"

Sarah responded. "What about Roan? He's been undercover for years."

Chuck shook his head again. "The last time we asked, he said he didn't know . . . besides, he hasn't returned my calls for weeks. We have to assume that his cover his blown. For all we know, he could be dead."

Casey expressed his frustration. "So our best plan requires us to launch an assault on Ring HQ, but we don't know where to assault?"

With that, Castle's monitor sprang to life. The image of a bespectacled, light-skinned African-American man with close-cropped hair and grey eyes appeared on screen. He appeared to be in his mid-50s, and wore the outfit of a two-star United States Army General.

"I believe I can help with that," General David Mills stated.

Casey turned around and saluted. "General. I didn't know you were watching."

The General, newly appointed as head of the NSA, nodded at Casey. "We're always watching. In any event, we've recently intercepted Ring communications which we believe identify the location of Ring HQ." The General looked like he was tapping on a computer. Castle's monitor suddenly pulled up satellite imagery of the Caribbean. The General pressed a few more buttons, and the image zoomed in on a small island off the coast of the Virgin Islands.

"Hobbes Island," the General explained. "It's a small uninhabited nature preserve about 50 miles east of Little Tobago. Based on the intercepted communications, and geothermal readings that shouldn't exist, we believe that it houses an underground Ring base."

Morgan, who had been quiet throughout the briefing, suddenly picked up his ears. "So you want us to assault an underground island hideout. _AWESOME_. What are we talking about? Air strikes? Full invasion?"

The General grimaced, looking irritated. "Far from it, Mr. Grimes. Hobbes Island is part of the British Virgin Islands. That makes it allied territory. We've contacted that British Government. They are opposed to any form of air strike or large-scale invasion of their island. I can't say that I blame them. Just think of the media coverage. However . . ."

The General paused as he studied his team. He had only worked with them briefly. But this was the kind of direction he hated to give. "The British informed us that they would be willing to _overlook_ a small expedition . . . no more than a handful of people. A team small enough that a landing wouldn't get noticed . . . or, if noticed, would facilitate plausible deniability as a training mission gone array."

Casey breathed deep. "How small General?"

The General looked intensely at Casey. "Small. About the size of your team, maybe a few more. The Human Intersect's abilities would be invaluable on such a mission, as would Orion's computer expertise. I might be able to convince the British to let us send two or three Marines for backup support."

"Just to be clear . . ." Chuck commented, interrupting. "Your grand plan is to send _us _against an island fortress of Ring operatives, hope that we can _somehow_ find an entrance to their secret underground lair, break-in, steal the Intersect source code, maybe plant some bombs or explosives, and get out without all of us being killed?"

The General responded with deadly seriousness. "Yes, that about sums it up."

"And this doesn't strike you as a monumentally stupid plan?" Chuck asked. "I mean, even if it wasn't an obvious trap, do you realize the odds we'd be facing?"

The General face turned sad, somber. "We are aware of the odds, Captain Bartowski. This isn't a mission that I'm going to order you, _or anyone_, to accept. But we believe it represents our best hope. Besides, your concerns about _conversion_ . . . we have reason to believe they are valid. Reports keep popping up from around the globe. Senior military and intelligence officials, politicians, doing _weird _things. As if they're being _controlled_. Captain Bartowksi, _Chuck_, I know we haven't known each other very long . . . but if we don't act now, we might not get another shot."

Chuck scanned the table. He saw the faces of Sarah, Casey, his father. His mind raced, filled with images – not Intersect images, just memories – of the people he cared about. Ellie. Awesome. Even those idiots at the Buy More. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the Great Seal of the United States displayed in the upper-right corner of Castle's monitor. He thought back to what Sarah had told him almost a year before: _"How many times do you have to be the hero, to realize that you are that guy?_"

For a year, since the Intersect download, he'd been fighting it. He told himself that he downloaded it on a lark, or to save his friends. He kept protesting to them, to Beckman, to Walt, but most of all, to himself, that he didn't want to be a spy. In his heart, he believed, he still didn't _want _to be one. But what he wanted was irrelevant. What he had chosen is what mattered. And, most importantly, what mattered is the task ahead of him. The mission that only he and his father had a chance of completing successfully.

"Ok then," Chuck said. "I'm in."

Everyone stared at him blankly.

* * *

**Office of General David Mills**

General Mills ended the transmission. Immediately, his eyes turned glassy. Within two seconds, a disoriented expression conquered his face. He stared blankly at his computer screen, as his right hand, operating on auto-pilot, grabbed his phone from his pocket and made a video call.

Mary Bartowski soon appeared on his screen. "Report, General," she asked to her unwitting disciple.

General Mills failed to make eye contact. His glaze remained fixated on the wall. He responded in a monotone, without a hint of emotion. "It is done as you instructed, Ma'am."

Mary smiled at him. "Good. You are free from us, for the time being." She snapped her fingers and disconnected the call.

Back in his office, General Mills blinked rapidly and shook his head. He glanced down at the time on his computer. He was running two minutes late for his next meeting. He shook his head again. "_Must have spaced out there for a moment_," he thought to himself. He made a mental note to take a coffee break after his next appointment ended.

* * *

**Castle**

"Chuck, wait," Sarah called, as she grabbed him by the arm, while he was leaving Castle. Casey, Stephen, and Morgan walked up the stairs, exiting their underground base.

"Chuck, what you agreed to do . . . it's a suicide mission," she said, her vocal tone mixing anger and pleading.

Chuck moved his head slightly from side-to-side. "I know."

Chuck paused, as he scanned around Castle, avoiding her eyes. He tried to look at her, but couldn't. Eventually, he found a comfortable wall decoration to zoom in on. "That's why I don't want you to come with me."

"_Excuse me?_" she demanded.

Chuck babbled a bit, trying to compose himself. "What I meant is, there are only two people who are essential to this mission. Me and my father. You, Casey, you're awesome. You're amazing. You've saved my life more times than I can count . . . it's time I returned the favor. There's nothing you can't do on the island that we can't find Redshirts for."

"Redshirts?" she asked, quizzically.

Chuck shook his head. "Never mind. My point is, if we manage to save the world, I want you in it, living in it . . . even if I'm not here. And the only way to ensure that, is if you don't come."

Sarah's eyes burned with rage, as steam lifted from her head. "Like hell I'm going to let you assault an island stronghold without me, Intersect or no. I'm coming with you . . ."

Chuck exhaled slowly. "And I can't convince you otherwise?"

"Till death do us part," she answered.

"Is that a proposal?" Chuck replied, smirking, "or a prediction?"

"Shut up," she answered playfully. She brushed his shoulder with her palm, and pulled him in for a tender, elongated kiss.

* * *

A/N: So I promised three more chapters. I guess I broke that promise. I decided to split the next intended chapter into two parts. In short, like a spy cliche never used in the series, this story culminates with the team assaulting a secret underground island lair. However, things don't go quite as planned. . . Any guesses as to how it ends?

A/N: There is some heavy stuff coming up. My writing has probably suffered a bit from not having a Beta. Anyone want to volunteer? Please let me know in a review or PM. And, as always, I love reviews and feedback.


	19. Chuck vs Buy Moria

**A/N:**** I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making money off**** this.**

_Previously in Chuck v. The End of History: _

_Chuck: "Your grand plan is to send us against an island fortress of Ring operatives, hope that we can somehow find an entrance to their secret underground lair, break-in, steal the Intersect source code, maybe plant some bombs or explosives, and get out without all of us being killed?"_

_General Mills: "Yes, that about sums it up."_

_Chuck: "And this doesn't strike you as a monumentally stupid plan?" _

_XXXXX_

_Sarah: "__Chuck, what you agreed to do . . . it's a suicide mission. . . . I'm coming with you." _

_Chuck: "And I can't convince you otherwise?"_

_Sarah: __"Till death do us part."  
_

* * *

Team Bartowski's vote was unanimous. They were all going. Even Morgan, albeit with the strict caveat that he would stay on the boat and monitor the comms. Three days of planning ensured. They reviewed satellite photos, plotted the best naval course, chose two Marines for backup, "redshirts," as Chuck called them, and planned the op. Their flight out was the next morning, to St. Thomas. From there, a boat would await them. Under the cover of night, they would assault Hobbes Island, identify an entrance to the base, infiltrate it, download the source code and, destroy the facility. If they had time, they also planned to upload Stephen's Internet removal program to the worldwide satellite network.

The night before, the Team, Orion included, assembled at Ellie's and Devon's for one last meal together. The wine flowed. The roast was properly seasoned. The asparagus was too salty. And a thick fog of tension filled the air, as Ellie brought out a pumpkin pie for dessert.

"Chuck, what's wrong?" his sister asked. She could sense him staring at his plate and avoiding eye contact with her. He was fiddling nonchalantly with his fork, playing with pieces of pie crumbs.

Chuck transparently feigned ignorance. "Nothing. It's just, I've missed this. . . these past few months."

"I see," Ellie answered. She didn't believe her brother, but didn't want to press the issue. It could wait.

"Whatever happened to that Walt guy?" Devon asked.

"Gone." Sarah answered.

"And good riddance." Casey added.

Chuck tapped Morgan on the shoulder. "We should go," he said.

Ellie queried them "What's up?"

Chuck maintained his paper-thin charade. "Nothing, just an evening planned."

"Without Sarah?" Ellie pressed.

Sarah smiled and jumped in. "I'll have him the rest of the night. I can give the two of them a few hours."

As Chuck got up, Ellie escorted him and Morgan to the door. Chuck wrapped his sister in a big bear hug. "You know I love you, right?"

Ellie backed off a bit. "Chuck? Now you're scaring me."

Chuck re-embraced her, and pulled her tighter. He whispered in her ear. "I'm not really an analyst."

A look of horror and realization crept across Ellie's face. She hadn't realized it. She had bought Walt's cover story.

"I know," she responded, lying.

Tears welled up in Chuck's eyes. "We're going after some very dangerous people, sis. These people . . . they killed mom. That's why she never came back to us."

"MOM?" Ellie responded, raising her voice. "What do you know? Talk. Now."

Stephen answered from the table. "She was a lot like Chuck, Ellie. She had the same _employer_. This organization that he's going after, that _we're _going after, they killed her."

Ellie's eyes burned with rage and indignation. "How long have you known?"

Stephen waffled. "Not long, all things considered. A little more than a year. Before then, I didn't know much more than you did. Chuck has only known for about nine months."

Ellie began crying, but her anger held back most of her tears. "And you both decided to keep me in the dark? And now you're going to run off to get yourselves killed too? If what you've said is true, I've lost a mother to these people. Now you want me to risk losing a father and brother too?"

Chuck grabbed her hands tenderly. "I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't want our last night . . . to end like this."

Ellie shuddered at the words "last night."

Chuck grabbed her hands again. "Ellie, I promise I'll come back for you."

Casey groaned. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Bartowski."

Chuck gave her one last hung. "Please, I don't want to fight. I promise to explain everything, when I get back. This is just one last mission."

Ellie balled out with tears, but sorrowful acceptance. Chuck kissed her forehead and left with Morgan.

Once outside, Morgan spoke. "You know, we don't have to do this. It's one last night. You should spend it with Ellie . . . with family."

Chuck moved his head nonchalantly. "You're family, Morgan. Besides. . . Ellie . . . We said our goodbyes. A few more hours in there won't change anything. She's never going to accept this, and certainly not in one night. Plus, if we've got any hope of succeeding . . . I need my mind clear."

Morgan studied his old friend. Chuck's moral compass remained the same. His attempt to save Walt proved it. But this life had clearly taken a toll on him. The Chuck he knew from three years ago wouldn't have left Ellie's side. And he certainly wouldn't have rationalized his decision by saying he needed to keep his mind "clear." Still, Morgan understood where Chuck was coming from – Ellie's love was overflowing and immense. Yet it was maternal, protective, and highly judgmental. Even Sarah's love had shades of the latter two qualities. Sarah understood the job. But her fierce desire to protect Chuck clouded matters, as did her lingering distaste for Chuck taking the spy path. A part of Sarah, Morgan sensed, would always miss the dopey computer technician she first met, and would perpetually blame herself for Chuck's loss of innocence. Morgan pondered it all. Out of Ellie, Sarah, and himself, he was the only one who truly offered Chuck unconditional, nonjudgmental acceptance. His best friend was a spy who was going to save the world. And he was going to help him, the only way he knew how.

They drove around that night – from their old high school, to the Malibu Pier, to a disgusting sandwich shop they favored one summer when Chuck was home from college. They laughed. They drank soda. They played video games at the Pier's arcade. And they capped off the night by sitting in their car, right outside the Buy More. The old girl was shuttered, closed. And not just for the night.

"It closed a few months ago," Morgan explained. "You know how they used to say that you were the glue that held that place together? They were right."

"How so?" Chuck asked.

"I heard about it from Big Mike. A few weeks after you quit, Jeff resigned. The guy just fell off the planet. Lester soon followed. Then Emmett got into a nasty altercation with a customer. Sales plummeted. Plus, they stopped getting all those mysterious all-day installs."

"Ah, yes." Chuck nodded. The missions, billed and paid for as Buy More installs. By the end, they probably amounted to a good chunk of the store's revenue.

"Anyway," Morgan said, "we should get back. Sarah's going to miss you. . . and we're shipping out in about ten hours."

Chuck hugged his friend. "Thanks for this." The night had started off heavy, at Ellie's. But the rest of the night was light, fun, carefree. Chuck realized that, despite the inevitable events of the next day, he probably felt happier and more relaxed than at any time since downloading the 2.0.

Morgan gave him an "aw shucks" look. "Hey, what are heterosexual life partners for?"

* * *

The flight down was uneventful. Once in St. Thomas, the team assembled in the armory of a small CIA outpost near Mandal Point. Supplies had been ferried in over the past few days, whatever the team would need. Sarah gasped in surprise as she noticed Chuck loading himself up with a live semi-automatic rifle.

"Chuck, they have tranqs," she commented, gesturing to the tranq pistols.

Chuck responded almost guiltily. "I know . . . but we don't know what we'll be facing . . . what kind of body armor they might have. For all we know, with what they've got, a tranq dart might just bounce off one their sci-fi encounter suits. I can't risk," he stammered, "I can't risk them hurting you, hurting any of us, because I can't handle a real gun. Besides," Chuck glanced over at his father, "that bug in my head will prevent me from aiming to kill. And the rest of the Intersect should do a pretty good job of making sure that I can aim to disable."

"Ok." She reached up and kissed his cheek. She still didn't want him carrying a real gun, but she was gratified for his explanation.

* * *

The waves parted furiously as the boat pierced them, pushing into a strong gale wind. The boat sped onward at 55 knots.

"_Some folks are born to made to wave the flag. _

_Oh, they're red, white and blue. _

_And when the band plays 'Hail to the Chief'_

_Ooh, they point the can-"_

Casey furiously yanked the iPod, speakers on maximum, and thew it into the ocean.

"Hey!" Morgan protested.

"What part of launching a secret nighttime assault do you not understand, moron?," he scowled. "It's not a secret if the Ring hears you blasting that damn hippie crap."

Morgan protested. "Dude, it's Creedance Clearwater Revival, and a classic."

Chuck and Sarah both suppressed giggles. Chuck smiled at his old friend. He knew that bringing him placed him in danger. But, in that brief moment, it was worth it. A bit of levity to take his mind off the task at hand. He looked at his watch, and at the impending shoreline. Soon, it would be showtime.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the boat came to rest just off the sandy beach. Chuck, Casey, Sarah, Stephen, and the two Marines – Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen – came ashore. Morgan stayed on the boat, monitoring a computer screen and linking himself to the team through comms.

The team approached stealthily; their night vision goggles activated. It was 3:45 in the morning. The new moon sky was dark, except for a cascade of stars. Chuck looked up briefly and gazed. Growing up in Los Angeles, then going to Stanford, he had never seen a night sky like this. A sky full of stars. So beautiful. So peaceful. He shook it off. This was no time to get distracted.

Casey motioned that they should split off. Hobbes Island was small, only 123 acres, less than 0.2 square miles, but the entrance to the base could be anywhere. Chuck, using his hands, directed the party to stick together for security. Their numbers were small, but together they at least stood a chance. They pressed onward, walking as quietly as possible.

Just then, large halogen stadium lights flashed on all around them. The lights blinded them temporarily. As the shock faded, they saw the lights strategically hung from trees. The Team bandied together, forming a protective circle, their backs to one another, and scanned the area.

Morgan was the first one to spot it, through the camera attached to Chuck's goggles. It was small at first, emerging from the back of a hill. It was a flag. The flag of . . . Buy Moria?

He hissed Chuck, then the team, to direct their attention towards it. The flag became more and more visible. It was clearly being waved by someone. That someone came into view. It was Lester Patel, flanked by Jeffrey Barnes to his left, and Emmett Millbarge to his right. Lester was still dressed as a Nerd Herder. Emmett, likewise, wore his Buy More uniform, complete with his Assistant Manager's vest. Only Jeffrey was dressed differently. He was in a t-shirt, which depicted Gollum in his cave, clasping a golden ring.

"Charleston, Charleston, it's been a long time," Lester announced. "I'm glad that you can finally answer the question which plagued Casey for so long."

"Huh?" Chuck answered.

"What sandwich _did _you take to a tropical desert island?"

Chuck shook him off. "What are you all doing here?"

Lester starting prancing around, conveying an aura of authority. "Our _employer _wanted to meet you."

"The Ring," Casey growled.

Lester continued. "Said employer thought you'd be more likely to cooperate, to come quietly, if you were greeted with a friendly face."

Chuck responded with defiance. "Charles Bartowski doesn't come quietly."

"Ugh, no kidding," Casey groaned. "You squeal like a little girl."

"Casey!" Sarah interjected.

Casey cranked his head towards her. "I'm right down the hall. You and the moron have been going at it for months."

Chuck ignored the banter and tried to focus on the task at hand, shaking off his false sense of bravado. "Lester, you work for the Ring now?"

"Not just us," Lester answered. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. Emerging from the surrounding hills was the complete Buy More staff. Big Mike. Skip Johnson. Fernando. Bunny. And about a dozen other employees. Each of them carried an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. And they looked . . . . _buff_. Fernando, for instance, had swapped 40 lbs of fat for 20 lbs of muscle. Unlike Lester and Emmett, none were in their Buy More uniforms. Instead, they sported military-style desert camouflage and body armor.

Casey gasped with "You're telling me the entire frelling Buy More was filled with Ring agents?"

Chuck scanned around him. Big Mike was swinging nunchaku like a trained expert. Emmett was in the starting pose of a krav maga master. Most of the armed green shirts were carrying their weapons in the manner of skilled marksmen. And their obvious physical fitness? Far off the charts compared to what he remembered. They'd been training with a dedication they never had for . . . well, anything.

Chuck shook Casey off. "I don't think so. Look around. They're all Intersected. They're not agents. They're pawns, slaves. They were probably sent here . . ."

"Because the Ring knows we won't risk hurting them," Casey said, finishing Chuck's sentence, and grunting.

Chuck nodded back at him. Casey was right. Even with his Intersect-assisted aim, he wasn't going to shoot Lester, or Jeff, or Big Mike, or any of the people he worked with. Not even Emmett.

Casey emitted a grunt. "So now we need to deal with Evil Lester. Great."

"Was there ever a time when Lester _wasn't evil_?," Morgan added over the comms.

Lester broke up the back-and-forth. "Enough chit-chat. Drop your weapons and surrender."

Chuck paused a minute, trying to assess the situation. Figuring out a course of action, he answered back. "Lester, drop the game. Your bosses, they don't want us dead. If they did, the Buy Morans would have shot us already. Let's all put down our weapons and fight like civilized people."

As a sign of good faith, Chuck began lowering his weapon.

Lester's eyes zoned out for a moment, as he processed new instructions from his overloads. Receiving the information, he answered back "Agreed."

Collectively, and simultaneously, the extended Team Bartowski and the Intersected Buy Morans slowly put down their guns.

Emmett then grabbed the flag of Buy Moria from Lester's hand, raised it high, and screamed "For Buy Moria!"

Lester raised his fists, pumped them in the air, and declared "For the Ring!"

Fernando cried out "Fernando's gonna kick Casey's ass," referring to himself in the third-person.

Big Mike added, in the direction of the shoreline, "Where are you Morgan? I know you're here somewhere. I pounded your mama, now I'm going to pound you too, son."

The camo-wearing Buy Morans fully emerged from their hiding places. They encircled the extended Team Bartowski and began closing in on their position. Chuck flashed on fighting skills and assumed a defensive pose.

Lester, meanwhile, from the top of the ridge, ran towards Jeff. Lester extended his right hand towards his older blond companion. In so doing, Lester revealed that he was wearing a strawberry-flavored Ring Pop on his right index finger. Lester clasped Jeff's fist and cried out: "Wonder Twin powers, activate: form of, a cheetah."

Jeff turned towards his old friend. "Sorry, the Intersect doesn't work like that."

Lester shook him off, "Eh, no matter." Then Lester ran, summersaulted in the air, and tackled Chuck.

"Chuck, I heard about your . . . surgery," Lester said, as they tussled on the ground.

"Huh?" Chuck answered.

Lester gave off an evil laugh. "Join me, Chuck. Together let us pour out our wrath upon the uncircumcised."

"TMI, Lester, TMI," Chuck answered, as he threw Lester off him. "Besides, what does that even mean?"

Lester backflipped and tried to kick Chuck, but Chuck blocked it. "I have no idea," Lester confessed. "I just thought it would sound cool. But what do you owe those Washington Foreskins anyway?"

Chuck dived between Lester's legs, spun around, and roundhouse kicked Lester in the back of the head. Lester went down, knocked out cold. "Time to cut the Ring down to size," he remarked.

"Pun, did you just pun, Chuck?" Morgan asked over the comms. Chuck cracked a small smile and scanned the area.

Frantic fighting ensued all around him. Skip Johnson did a backflip, grabbed Sgt. Garibaldi between his knees, then flipped him to the ground. Two former Buy Moran green shirts were pounding Sgt. Allen from each side. Big Mike, aided by two former green shirts, was running the direction of the boat. Morgan would soon be captured. Sarah appeared to be doing ok, holding off Bunny, Emmet, and a green shirt simultaneously. Casey, however, was in trouble. Skip Johnson, fresh from knocking out Sgt. Garibaldi, had catapulted himself towards Casey, flattened him to the ground, and placed him in a chokehold. Two former Buy Moran green shits rushed to hold him down. Fernando emerged from Casey's posterior and, literally, began kicking his ass. Stephen, simultaneously, was trying to fight off close to half-a-dozen green shits.

Making a split-second decision, Chuck ran towards his father. Casey would need to wait. Chuck back-flipped and kicked two the former Buy Moran green shirts attacking Stephen. They collapsed, knocked unconscious. His father, dazed but freed, tried to run for cover.

Then Chunk felt it. The sting of someone's boot. He fell backwards, stammering. His head hit the cold night-time sand. He looked up, and saw three blurry images of Emmett Millbarge standing over him.

From his prone position, Chuck grasped his surroundings. He could see them. Bunny was squatting over a passed-out Sarah, making a crude gesture. Bunny then dropped her shorts and appeared to pass wind right above Sarah's sleeping eyes. "That's what you get for taking Chuck away from me," Bunny exclaimed.

Simultaneously, Fernando was tea-bagging, video game style, a passed-out Casey. Twisting his upper-body into a mini-dance, Fernando air-pumped his fists in celebration and snapped his fingers. A gleeful, almost euphoric smile blasted from Fernando's face, as he repeatedly rose then lowered his clothed crotch unto Casey's nose.

As for Stephen, a host of green shirts had caught up to him, restrained him, and pinned him to the ground. Stephen was trying to fight them off. But his middle-aged physique was no match for the squad of Intersected goons. Only Chuck remained.

"Mr. Bartowski, how nice of you to join us," Emmett pronounced, his face perched over Chuck's. Chuck backflipped up and punched Emmett in the jaw.

"Always wanted to do that." Chuck exclaimed. Just then, Chuck felt a pinch in his neck. Not like a punch. More like a needle. Or, more accurately, a dart. He turned around to see Jeffrey Barnes with a tranq pistol, arms extended. Chuck felt woozy as he collapsed on the ground.

Jeffrey heard something in his ear piece.

"I thought we agreed no guns." It was the voice of the Ring Chair.

"Ma'am," Jeffrey responded, "the objective is to secure Chuck and his father unharmed. Letting them get their asses kicked isn't going to accomplish that."

Mary responded back to him. "Understood and agreed. Make sure that our guests are comfortable, and that the injured ones receive medical attention. Then report back to the Chamber. We must make preparations to greet the Little Child."

Jeffrey stood over the unconscious, sleeping body of his former Nerd Herd Supervisor. He gazed at him with a curious expression. "Sleep tight, my old friend. For the End of History is Nigh."

* * *

A/N 1: Remember, this diverges from the end of Season 2. So, in this story, Emmett wasn't killed early in Season 3.

A/N 2: As a Fanfic author, it's tough to be original. There are over 4500 Chuck stories written. But try to find me one where Fernando is both an intersect and kicks Casey's ass. I might not be the best writer here, or anything close to it, but I at least try to be original and do the unexpected. And I think the final 2 chapters of this story will go in a direction that you'll find surprising. Oh, and I like reviews.


	20. Chuck vs The One Ring to Rule Them All

_A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from_ _this._

* * *

_Previously in Chuck vs The End of History_

_Chapter 1_

_Roan: "Revered Delegates, Madame Chair, fear not. Our goal remains within our grasp. To the End of History!"_

_Chapter 3_

_Roan: "Nobody thinks they are the villain. Everyone, Charles, believes that they are the hero of their own story. . . . fundamentally, we're in this business to help people. To save lives. To make the world a better place."_

_Chapter 17_

_Walt: "It would be such a shame if we had to put the Doctors Woodcomb in protective custody . . . a bunker perhaps . . . for their own protection."_

_Stephen: "YOU SON OF A BITCH!"_

_Chapter 18_

_Sarah: "Like hell I'm going to let you assault an island stronghold without me, Intersect or no. I'm coming with you . . ."_

_Chuck: "And I can't convince you otherwise?"_

_Sarah: "Till death do us part."_

_Chuck: "Is that a proposal? Or a prediction?"_

_Chapter 19_

_Mary: "Make sure that our guests are comfortable, and that the injured ones receive medical attention. Then report back to the Chamber. We must make preparations to greet the Little Child."_

_Jeffrey Barnes, standing over the unconscious Chuck, while the knocked-out Team Bartowski lies nearby, "Sleep tight, my old friend. For the End of History is Nigh."_

* * *

Casey's eyes flickered awake. The harsh artificial light of the cell blinded him, causing him to blink hard as he adjusted. Staggering back into consciousness, he saw Chuck, Sarah, and Morgan looking over him. Behind them, Stephen sat on the floor of the padded white room, resting his head against the wall. Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen sat next to him.

"Huh? ugh" Casey emitted, grunting in horror as he looked at the group. Everyone was in their underwear. Or, to be precise, not _their own _underwear. The men all wore the same brand of tighty whities. Sarah wore them too, differentiated only by a plain white bra.

"They took our clothes," Sarah explained. "We woke up like this."

"How long?" Casey inquired.

Chuck answered him. "We don't know. But we think at least a day."

Casey turned over to stand up. Chuck, Sarah, and Morgan all tried hard to suppress a smile. Morgan faltered, and began cracking up.

"What are you yammering about, troll?" Casey asked.

Morgan tried unsuccessfully to get his laugher under control. "It's just, have you looked at your . . . um . . . posterior."

"Eh?" Casey asked as he cranked his neck to try to look at his buttocks. He could see it, visible through the tighty whities. A tattoo on his rear: the words "PROPERTY OF," followed by a tattooed picture of Fernando's smiley face.

"That little twerp, I'm going to kill him!" Casey grumbled.

Stephen stood up and approached. "We've got bigger problems. We . . ."

Stephen was interrupted by the sound a loud electronic beeping sound. Shortly thereafter, a portion of the padded wall opened up. Roan Montgomery walked in, accompanied by twelve armed soldiers. One of the soldiers was carrying stacks of clothing. Another rolled in a table with covered trays.

Chuck looked up at him empathetically. "They . . . got you too?"

Roan responded with a large, mischievous smile. "Oh Charles. . . . _They got me a long time ago_."

Casey growled at him. "You fucking traitor!"

Roan turned towards him, and responded with feigned curiosity. "Traitor? Traitor to whom?"

"The American people!" Casey retorted, angrily.

Roan raised his eyebrows, and grew a small smile. "There's only one people that I care about."

"And who is that?" Chuck asked.

Roan walked over and tried to place his hand on Chuck's shoulder, but Chuck flinched and jumped back. "The human people, Charles. The human people."

Roan directed everyone's attention to the soldier carrying the clothes. "Here, put these on."

The solider passed out plain, egg-colored one-size-fits-all outfits: (i) sweatpants with a comfortable, stretchable waist; and (ii) a long sleeve cotton shirt. Chuck looked down at it. He couldn't quite recall the exact movie, but the clothing resembled the kinds of uniforms seen in dystopian science fiction.

"Put it on," the solider barked at him.

Chuck complied and began putting on his pants. The rest of the team followed, and began dressing.

Roan spoke again, gesturing towards the soldier with the rolling table and covered trays. "Once you get more comfortable, Armand here brought you some lunch."

The soldier, Armand, lifted one of the trays to reveal a generous selection of sandwiches, salads, and beverages.

"Eat heartily," Roan instructed.

Sarah lifted up a turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and hot peppers on pumpernickel bread. She began examining it skeptically.

"It's not poisoned, Agent Walker," Roan reassured. "If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead. If we wanted you drugged, you'd be drugged. Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich."

"He's right," Stephen commented. "Or, at least we have nothing to lose. If we want any chance of getting out of this, we'll need our strength."

The team ate reluctantly, in silence. The entire time, Casey scowled at Roan, grunting with his eyes. Chuck's eyes, conversely, faced the floor. He refused to make eye contact. Sarah's attention remained focused on Chuck. Even Morgan stayed silent, devoid of quips or jokes.

Roan merely watched and observed. Twenty minutes later, he addressed them again. "Now that you've eaten your fill, come with me. There's someone who wants to see you."

From the back, Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen began walking forward. Roan shook them off with his finger. "Not you two. The muscle stays here." Roan then turned towards Morgan. "So does the clown."

Roan waved the rest of the team past him, directing them down a hallway. "This way, Col. Casey, Cpt. and Mr. Bartowski, Agent Walker."

Casey went first, followed by Chuck and Sarah. Stephen rounded out the group. After he left, the soldier closed the door to the padded cell behind him. The soldiers presented their rifles and, at gunpoint, marched the team down the hall.

* * *

Team Bartowski emerged, after sixty feet of a low-lit anonymous hallway, in a large, circular limestone chamber. The Chamber of the Ring. But, save one, the alcoves of the Revered Delegates stood empty. The lights above each alcove were off. Only the soft yellow light of a large ceiling fixture provided illumination. It was enough. They could see the marble throne of the Ring Chair, and the steps ascending to it. The throne itself stood empty. To its right side, a small portable table had been set up, stocked with seltzer, glasses, olives, and potato chips. Two comfortable lounge chairs had been moved in, placed next to the table. It looked like a disjointed living room, except instead of stairs leading to a second story, they led to the throne-like Ring Chair.

One alcove, about forty feet to their upper left, was occupied. From it, heavenly music filled the air. The music of Jeffster. The duo were midway through an acoustic version of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire," as Team Bartowski entered the Chamber.

_Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev_

_Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc_

_Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron_

_Dien Bien Phu falls, "Rock Around the Clock" . . . ._

_We didn't start the fire_

_It was always burning_

_Since the world's been turning_

_We didn't start the fire_

_No we didn't light it_

_But we tried to fight it_

"They got good," Chuck commented. "Like, real good."

"The Intersect will do that," Stephen noted.

Casey grunted an acknowledgment.

Just then, they heard footsteps. From the dimly lit area behind the throne, they could first make out only a silhouette. Then she came into view. She was wearing a golden, loose fitting kaftan. The single-piece garment draped down to her ankles. The sleeves were wide, flowing, leaving ample free fabric. Even the minute circulation of the Chamber's climate control system caused air to flow upwards, through the sleeves, resulting in the golden fabric crashing up and down like waves upon her arms. In front, a demure v-neck opening gave only the fairest hint of her bosom, preserving her modesty. She wore a silver necklace with an emerald charm around her neck, the stone's color accentuating her piercing green eyes. Her face was plain, without makeup, and her composure serious. Her dark brown hair, streaked with grey, crested upon her shoulders.

Roan introduced her. "Madame Chair," he said, bowing respectfully towards her. The soldiers, prodding their rifles, convinced Team Barkowski to do the same, resulting in a conspicuous grunt from Casey.

As Stephen emerged from his bow, he caught his first good look at her. His face turned pale white, as he stared at the ghost in front of him. His lips quivered, speechless, in awe and shock.

Chuck's take was different. He did not recognize her. Having not seen her since he was a boy, he barely had any memory – a few photographs aside – from what she looked like. And the twenty years had aged her considerably. His faint mental depiction of her was unable to adjust for the gap in time. But he sensed something familiar about her, almost as if she reminded him of an older version of Ellie.

"Good evening," the Chair announced, "I trust you've been well-treated."

"Who are you?" Chuck asked with curiosity. As he asked the question, he caught the bewildered, inexplicable expression on his father's face. He couldn't quite figure it out.

Sarah's eyes burned at her with anger. "What do you want?," Sarah demanded.

Roan interjected. "There is time enough to answer both questions. But first, a gift."

Roan cranked his head towards an empty hallway between the alcoves of the Revered Delegates. "Here boy!," he called. Roan then placed two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

Roan poured himself a seltzer into a martini glass, garnished it with two olives, and took a seat in one of the comfortable lounge chairs. He spoke. "As you know, the Intersect can do more than store information and teach skills. It can influence the mind. We wanted to see how far we could take that. Would it be possible to implant an entirely new personality in a subject?"

Roan cranked his head in the direction of his whistle. Then he turned back and faced Team Bartowski, grinning almost maliciously, "Now, we're not quite at the stage of copying of _human _mind but . . . I trust you'll be pleased with the results."

Shortly thereafter, Walt came into the room. He was on all fours, walking on his hands and knees. He was completely naked, except for an adult diaper around his waist. He wagged his buttocks furiously from left to right, and if to direct the movements of an imaginary tail. Blond and silver peach-fuzz hair covered his back and stomach. Walt's mouth was open, with his tongue hanging out. He was huffing and puffing like a canine. He spotted Roan and, excitedly, ran over to him – still on his hands and knees. He jumped on Roan's lap and began licking his face.

Roan turned towards Stephen. "It was you who gave me the inspiration . . . our bugs picked up your conversation with Walt that night in the Echo Park courtyard. I believe you called him a 'son of bitch'? Well, let's just say that we decided to make your insult . . . a bit literal."

Casey emitted half-a-chuckle before catching himself. "Heh. Good thing you didn't call him a mother-fucker."

Chuck turned towards Casey. "Isn't Walt's mother dead?"

Casey groaned. "Ugh. Even worse."

Roan chortled at the team. "Motherfucker. There's a certain . . . appropriateness in that. But not when directed at Walt."

Sarah stared at him. "What do you mean?'

"Oh, you'll all find out, soon enough," Roan responded, suppressing a laugh.

Chuck readjusted his focus back towards Walt. He had his differences with the man. But he couldn't help feel sympathy, and more than a bit of disgust, at what the Ring had turned him into. "Why?," Chuck asked.

Roan dug into his pocket, and pulled out a bone. He tossed it back down the hallway. "Go fetch," he directed. Walt jumped off his lap and, on all fours, scampered after it, disappearing from view.

Roan smiled at him. "Partially, because Walt is a bastard. Partially, because he represents everything that we – that I – have been fighting against. But, I'll admit, it was also more than a bit personal. You see, about twelve years ago, my niece was a junior agent under Walt's command."

Roan waxed, getting a bit choked up. "It was my fault you joined, you see . . . she thought she'd have a life of adventure just like her uncle." He pulled his pocket watch from his jacket, opened it, and looked at her picture. "FARC, Columbian terrorists, they captured her. And Walt – that sniveling little shit – didn't lift a finger to rescue her. 'Too dangerous,' he said. 'Not essential to our objectives,' 'Not worth the risk of rescue attempt,' blah, blah, blah. They killed her. And we did nothing."

Casey squared him up. "So that's why you did it? Turned traitor? Because your niece died serving the country that you'd betray?"

Roan shook him off, then began walking in a circle around the group. "No. She is why I tested a new version of the Intersect on that smug bastard. As for betrayal, look in the damn mirror, all of you."

The Ring Chair stood, proudly, a small smile on her face, her arms crossed, as Roan continued his circular march, his _ring_, around Team Barkowski.

Roan spoke bitterly, dropping his drunken playboy mask entirely, as the seltzer-in-the martini glass sloshed from side to side, drops being thrown haphazardly to the floor. "My entire career. For what? We overthrew one dictator to prop up another. Out went an Ian Smith, in went a Mugabe. Again and again. We even armed the mujahedeen to defeat the Soviets, then watched as they turned their weapons on us. Perhaps even worse, we stood bye and did nothing as genocide-after-genocide unfolded."

Roan looked up at the ceiling. "Something I remember from my days in Seminary. Leviticus 19:16 - Do not stand idly by while your neighbor's blood is shed, for I am the Lord. Well, let's just say that I got nauseous of standing idly by. Cambodia: two million dead. Rwanda: 600,000 slaughtered in six-weeks. North Korea: three million dead from famine, and the entire country imprisoned. The Second Congo War: five million dead."

Roan grew angrier, more frustrated. "I tried, my gosh I tried. I went to Beckman, to Graham, to their predecessors, and to dozens of generals over the years. Their answer was the same: they took their guidance from the politicians. And the politicians didn't want to help. 'The American People don't care,' they told me. Well, you know what, I FUCKING CARED." He shuddered, as tears dripped down his cheeks. He cried in rage. "All those people. ALL DEAD. And we didn't prevent it. I DIDN'T PREVENT IT."

The Ring Chair approached Roan, and gently put her hand on his shoulder, comforting him. She gave him a soft, moist peck on the lips, then retreated. "We aren't the villains, here, Messrs. Bartowski and Team. We're the heroes. All of us. The links in the Ring. Together, we've sacrificed friends, _family_, to serve a nobler purpose . . . to save lives, to end suffering, to liberate people from bondage."

Chuck glared at the Ring Chair skeptically. "Is that what you did to the Buy More staff? To the hundreds of thousands of people you duped into being your slaves?"

The Ring Chair interrupted. "A few received more _intensive _instruction from us, true. Their free will had to be sacrificed to ensure our ability to _guide _governments, the media, the major financial players. But they are a small, infinitesimal fraction of those we will help . . . of those we will save."

The Ring Chair glanced at Stephen, who still looked at her in shock, his mouth agape. She winked at him, then turned her neck towards Chuck. "Chuck, Stephen never told you what happened to your mother."

Chuck flinched backwards. Her comment came out of nowhere. He stammered. "He told me enough . . . he told me you, the Ring, killed her."

She cracked a small smile. "No, I am your mother."

Chuck's eyes bulged out of his sockets. His eyes darted towards Stephen, whose head was hung low, almost in shame, refusing to return Chuck's glance. Chuck refocused and studied the visage of the Ring Chair before him. Her resemblance to Ellie. It was striking, far more than he realized at first. He turned towards Roan, whose arm was now affectionately grasped around the Ring Chair's waist. _'Motherfucker,' _Chuck thought to himself, his mind boiling over in anger.

He answered her. "The Vader speech? Seriously, you're giving me the Vader speech? What's next? Are you going to tell me to join you, so that together we can rule the galaxy as mother and son?"

Mary Bartowski smirked back at her son, flailing her wrist at him playfully. "Not quite. But together we _can _end this destructive conflict."

Casey jumped in. "What conflict?"

Roan answered him. "History, Col. Casey. The process of human struggle over land, nationality, religion, ideology. The killing and oppression of people for utter foolishness. For a while, about twenty years ago, we had hope. We had brought down Communism. We liberated millions of people from its Iron Curtain. We thought we were at the dawn of a new age. An American political scientist, Francis Fukuyama, even proclaimed it The End of History. He believed that with Communism defeated, there were no more major battles to be fought. Western liberal democracy would sweep the globe, ushering in a perpetual era of peace and prosperity.

Casey snapped back. "Fukuyama was wrong."

The Ring Chair acknowledged the Colonel. "He was. But we aim to make his dream a reality."

Roan added to her words. "Col. Casey, in the words of one of your idols, we truly do stand athwart history, yelling stop!"

Stephen stared at Ring Chair and spoke, barely audibly. "The Intersect. You're going to mind control the planet, aren't you?"

Roan smirked at the elder Bartowksi. "Mind control? Tish tosh. Such an ugly word. We don't want to control minds. Not the little things, anyway. Believe in whatever magical sky fairies you wish. Fight your neighbor about whether his tree is on your property. Stiff a waitress on a tip. Get drunk and cheat on your spouse. Hell, gratuitously vomit out racial slurs. I know your son enjoys using them in Hebrew."

Chuck grimaced, being reminded of the awkward encounter he experienced under Roan's tutelage, caused by the malfunctioning Intersect.

Roan just smirked at him and continued. "We don't care. We're focused only on the big things. The really important things. Don't murder. Don't rape. Don't start wars for national or religious glory. Don't send your army in to steal food from starving people. Don't enslave children to work in cobalt mines. But do give everyone access to clean, potable water, to sanitation, to vaccinations, to basic nutrition. Our _therapy _will fix what's wrong with the world. And our acolytes, our . . ."

"Slaves," Casey interjected.

Roan ignored him. "Our _converts _sitting atop governments will make sure that the world stays fixed."

"What about freedom?" Casey probed.

Roan scoffed. "Ah yes, freedom. But what kind of freedom? The freedom to not be blown up by a suicide bomber while sitting in a cafe? The freedom to not starve to death or die of easily preventable childhood illnesses, just because your parents are poor? The freedom to not be herded into camps and shot by your own government? That's freedom too, Col. Casey. Thats the kind of freedom we support."

As Roan finished speaking, Jeffster changed songs. They began singing the "Stonecutters" parody song, from "The Simpsons."

"_Who controls the British Pound? Who keeps the metric system down? We do, we do!" _

Hearing their choice of song, Mary suppressed a laugh, smiled at Roan, and then supplemented his words. "We will eradicate conflict, strife, bloodshed, poverty, famine, war. But, to build our new enlightened order, we want your help, Chuck."

"_Who leaves Atlantis off the maps? Who keeps the Martians under wraps? We do, we do!"_

Chuck examined her closely. His father's bewildered expression was all the proof he needed that she was his mother, and that she truly believed what she was saying. He answered her, indirectly. "So, let me get this straight. You abandoned me and Ellie to do what, exactly? Head up an evil organization and plot to take over the world? And now you want my help to actually do it?"

Mary answered him stoically, without guilt or sorrow. "I made the choice I did to free millions of people, Charles. It wasn't the United States that freed Poland, brought down the Iron Curtain. It was the Polish people, assisted by us. The United States tried to prevent it. They tried to keep those murderous assholes in power to preserve the status quo. I made a choice, my beloved son."

"_Who holds back the electric car? Who makes Steve Guttenberg a star? We do, we do!"_

Mary walked over to him. She extended her arm, but Chuck flinched back. "Soldiers go off to war, Charles. They die to keep their countries, their loved ones safe. How could I not make the same choice, to free millions? But I didn't abandon you. In a way, I've always been with you."

"_Who robs cave-fish of their sight? Who rights every Oscar night? We do, we do!_"

"Do you remember your fraternity brother, Henry Caster?," Mary asked, to which Chuck nodded responsively. He barely knew Henry, although he always seemed to hang around him.

Mary acknowledged Chuck's nod. "Henry was one of my agents. He kept tabs on you."

Mary then turned her direction towards Jeffster, which had just finished its song. "And, when you went to the Buy More, I sent another agent to watch over you . . . to keep me abreast of how you were doing. You knew him as Jeff Barnes."

Jeff put down his guitar, and walked over to Team Bartowski.

"Hi Chuck," Jeff said shyly, his own embarrassment turning his face deep red.

Chuck's eyebrows raised involuntarily. "JEFF? JEFFREY FREAKING BARNES WAS A RING AGENT? The same guy who'd eat mystery items for $5?"

"My cover," Jeff explained. "I'm actually a pretty respectful, sober guy."

Chuck cranked his head towards the lesser half of Jeffster. "And now what, you're going to tell me that Lester's the secret mastermind behind everything."

Jeff laughed. "No. Lester was genuinely a pervert and a creep . . . though I do admit to developing a certain platonic fondness for him. But, with the help of Madame Chair, we've _improved _him. We've _given him a purpose _other than harassing women."

Chuck looked at Lester, who was fiddling with his microphone, an almost blank look on his face. "You enslaved him. Turned him into your puppet."

Roan twirled Mary around, and started slow dancing with her. "Mary . . . be my Ginger," he directed.

He twirled her around and began singing, dancing in rhythm. "You say eether and I say eyether. You say neether and I say nyther. Eether, eyether, neether, nyther . . . so let's rule the world together, togyther, together, togyther."

Chuck watched in astonishment. He shook his head furtively. "None of this explains what you want with me, what we're all doing here."

Roan dipped Mary and spun her away from him. "The Intersect, Charles. The original data Intersect."

Mary brushed herself off and approached Chuck. "You have a very special brain, Charles. . . . The version of the Intersect we're _gifting_ the world is a very small amount of data. Just a few basic commands. We expect that most of the world will handle it without difficulty. The more fulsome version which we give to our acolytes . . . what your electronics store associates received . . . . that's more information. But it's still a miniscule drop compared to the ocean of information swimming inside your head. What you can store, what you can process . . . . your capabilities are unique. Not even Stephen could handle it."

Roan walked over to the small table by the marble Chair. He poured himself another seltzer "martini," and garnished it with two more olives. He waived the filled glass in the air for effect. "What she's getting to, Charles, is that utopia will not emerge overnight. The new world, the world of order, the _Ring World_, will need managers – people to analyze data, spot conflicts, find solutions, and give directions to our acolytes. It will need people like you."

Roan circled the roam, seltzer spilling from his glass and splashing on the floor as he paced. "In a way, it's a lot like what you've been doing the past three years. It's _helping people_, Charles. Except instead of jumping off buildings and dodging bullets, you'll be behind a desk . . . . spotting problems before there's a need for gallantry and violence."

Chuck flinched backwards. "You . . . you've been using me, _handling_ me, from the start, haven't you? You prodded me to be a spy, to _help _people. You needed my father to design the skeleton of the mind control code . . . so you manipulated Walt, Beckman, to give me that Red Test . . . to give Dad the right incentive. And you brought us here . . . . because you need my father's code again. The same technology, the same code that he was going to use to remove the Intersect globally . . . . you're going to use it to implant your Intersect around the globe."

Roan beamed at Chuck again. "You're mostly correct. The fact that your father already designed the exact software we need to upload our Intersect was a surprise. Call it an 'added bonus.' Our original plan was to bring him here and, with the Intersect's help, _convert _him to our cause. Or, if that didn't work, simply torture or threaten him into writing the software that, it turns out, he's already written for us. Also, I didn't have to manipulate Walt or Diane to do anything. Those fools were so predictable that all we did was give them a few bread crumbs to follow."

Roan paused for a moment, to maximize the dramatic effect, as he grinned deliciously. "But as to everything else? What can I say? Got me."

Roan's grin faded. His expression and tone of voice turned comforting, emphatic. "But that doesn't change anything. The CIA, the NSA, they've been manipulating you for years. And for what? Petty national glory? There's a better purpose to your life, Charles, a _higher _purpose."

Mary approached Chuck and placed her hands within his. "We can be a family again, Chuck. But instead of all the lies and secrets, we can be a family that presides over the globe, protecting the peace, saving people. Isn't that what you want?"

Tears welled up in Chuck's eyes. He could see her point. Then Sarah shattered the illusion. "Utopians. You're all alike. Robespierre and his Reign of Terror. Communists. Nazis. Khomeini and his fanatics. You promise a new age. You bring only death, destruction, oppression."

"We're different," Mary protested.

"That's what they all say," Sarah retorted. "Chuck, listen carefully. . . listen to me. She said that *most* would handle her brain-washing abomination. What happens to those who can't? What happens to the epileptics? Did they think of them when designing an Intersect upload with millions of flashing pictures? And her new age? Some kind of committee of managers, a _Politburo_, deciding the fate of the planet? When has that ever worked? The order, the peace, the _family _she's promising . . . they are just synonyms for terror. No one elected them. The American people didn't elect them. Neither did the French, or the Germans, or the Indians, or the Senegalese."

Chuck turned towards Sarah and smiled. "I know." He faced his mother and Roan, and queried them. "Am I correct that this rock is British soil?"

Mary interjected. "I don't see what that has to do with anything, but yes."

Chuck's face turned devilish. "You see, you walked into my trap." Chuck touched his ear, hitting the earpiece that had been installed all the way back at the Farm.

Mary scoffed at him. "What are you going to do? Blow up the island?"

Chuck's smile grew even more twisted. "As a matter of fact. . . . Cole, are you getting this?"

The English-accented voice of Cole Barker answered him. "Loud and clear, Chuck."

"And how far away are the Royal bombers?," Chuck asked.

"About two minutes," Cole answered.

Chuck gulped, as he internalized the consequences of his next words. "Then you have a 'go.' Find my sister . . . tell Ellie that I love her."

Mary and Roan quickly drew their guns at Chuck.

Chuck laughed at them. "It won't do any good. Cole will only listen to me. Spend the final minutes of your lives praying to those magical sky fairies for forgiveness. Maybe they'll absolve you."

He turned towards Casey. "Big fella. It's been a fun ride, mostly. But, to paraphrase your mentor . . . my fellow Americans, I've just signed legislation that will outlaw the Ring forever. The bombing begins in two minutes."

As he said the words, he didn't know how he found the strength, the courage, the bravado. He had surprised himself. But then his expression, his tone of voice, they grew pensive as he stared down his own mortality. He turned and faced Sarah. He extended his hand, and gently massaged her check.

Chuck spoke: "Sarah Walker. I always wanted to spend the rest of my life with you . . . . I guess I got my wish."

Chuck got too emotional to keep speaking. Soon, he found Sarah's lips flush against his own, as she embraced him passionately.

Sarah's lips parted momentarily from his. "As I said, till death do us part," she answered, before kissing him again, this time even more deeply.

Casey grunted, and found that he was unexpectedly crossing himself.

Stephen looked at his wife, at Roan, and at his son. He smiled gently.

Seconds passed like hours . . . too many seconds. Chuck and Sarah broke off their kiss. They collected themselves. They were still alive. Everyone was still alive. They turned towards Roan and Mary, both of whom seemed to be holding back . . . laughter.

Roan's dam broke first. He started cracking up, uncontrollably.

Sarah interrogated him. "What's so funny?"

Roan's mouth opened, but Mary answered first. "That you actually thought you were going to win."

Mary pressed a button on her wrist watch. A direct line of communication opened, and the back-and-forth blasted publicly through the Chamber's speakers. She spoke into her watch. "Agent Barker. Please give me a status on those bombers."

Cole responded to her, his voice booming throughout the Chamber. "They await your orders, Madame Chair. We live for the Ring. We die for the Ring."

"Return to base," Mary instructed.

Mary hit another button on her watch, and disconnected the call. She paced around the Chamber, explaining. "You see, our acolytes have firm control over the British Government. It was they who prevented a full-scale invasion of this isle, yet permitted your foolish expedition. And when they learned about Agent Barker's unexpected request for air support . . . to bomb one of their _own_ islands . . . _this island _. . . well, let's just say that they reached out to Agent Barker. They,_ we_, _introduced _him to the Intersect yesterday."

Chuck breathed deeply. He hadn't expected to still be alive, and he had no plans for what came next. "So what now?," Chuck asked.

Mary answered him. "I had three children in my life, Charles. You, your sister, and the Intersect. I designed her, together with your father. Even after I left, I fed her code pieces of the puzzle, through your father's bumbling associates. But my masterpiece . . . this tiny piece of the Intersect that will save the world . . . **my _Little Child_ **. . . well, it's time to witness her birth."

Mary lifted her arm and pressed a button on her watch. The large four-sided monitor descended from the ceiling of the Chamber and lit up, broadcasting news channels from around the globe.

Mary pulled Roan in, and kissed him passionately, largely in _faux _imitation of what she had witnessed between Chuck and Sarah. She pressed another button on her watch. "This is how history ends, Charles. Not with a bang. Not with a whimper. But with the promise of a new and glorious future. I suggest that you and your associates close your eyes."

Chuck, Sarah, Casey, and Stephen abided by her instructions. They could not watch it. But they could hear it. The high-tech humming, almost shrieking sound, of an Intersect upload/download. Broadcast simultaneously across the globe, on every television channel, electronic billboard, and computer with an internet connection.

Roan closed his eyes yet tilted his neck upwards, at the ceiling of the Chamber and muttered a silent prayer. His face looked peaceful and contented, yet wistful. He began reciting scripture.

"_And he shall judge between the nations, and decide for many peoples. And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift sword against nation. Neither shall they learn war anymore_."

Roan lifted his finger to capture a tear he found dripping down his cheek, which had somehow emerged from his shut eyes. He smiled, almost euphorically.

"_And the wolf shall dwell the lamb. And the leopard will lay down with the kid, and the calf, and the young lion and the fatling together. **And a Little Child shall lead them**_."

The humming of the Intersect download ceased. It had finished.

Mary spoke. "It will repeat every twenty minutes for the next two weeks, to pick up the stragglers."

She grabbed her gun, and pointed it at Stephen. "Now there's just one loose end to clean up . . . one person who could undue our work, frustrate our Great Cause."

Chuck looked on in horror. He tried to speak, to yell, to say anything. But he couldn't find the words. Just inaudible gasps.

An unexpected "STOP!" filled the room. Everyone turned to see the speaker. It was Jeff Barnes.

"Madame Chair, you don't have to do this. He's no threat. We can introduce him to the Intersect, turn him to our cause."

Roan echoed the thoughts of his blond, balding friend. "Jeff's right you know. He's more valuable to us alive."

Mary shook her head, derisively. "We don't know how our Intersect with interact with Stephen's. Some portion of his free will might survive. We can't risk that . . . not after everything we've gone through."

Stephen straightened his back, confidently. "Mary, if strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." He half-smiled, then winked at Chuck.

Mary blew raspberries. "You're not Obi Wan, Stephen." She pulled the trigger.

Within that fraction of a second, Chuck reached out and started to scream. His desperate cry accomplished nothing. The bullet flew, and penetrated Stephen's chest. Stephen fell to the floor, and blood gushed from his body.

Chuck felt his heart almost burst from his ribcage as he turned towards his mother, smoke still rising from the gun. He looked at his father, still barely alive, jerking involuntarily upon the floor. It was too much for him. Chuck collapsed to the ground in anguish. He peaked his head up, and saw Casey and Sarah lunge towards his mother. Both were immediately tranqued by Ring soldiers. They too collapsed but, unlike his father, to a bloodless and non-eternal sleep.

A Ring solider called out. "And the rest, what should we do with them?"

Mary pulled her sidearm down and holstered it. She picked up a tranq pistol and aimed it at her son. "Throw them into the apartment until we know what to do with them."

She fired her pistol, and Chuck felt the sting of a dart enter his neck. He grew dizzy, sleepy. All around him, the room turned black, as his drifted off into unconsciousness.

Ten feet away from his son, with his dying breaths, Stephen flickered his eyes rapidly. The flickering sent instructions to his brain, where a tiny microchip activated. It immediately began broadcasting a signal.

* * *

Over 3300 miles away, in a cabin located within the great forests of Montana, a giant supercomputer activated. As the monitor lit up, a three-dimensional almost holographic representation of Stephen Bartowksi appeared on screen.

"Huh. It worked," Stephen Bartowski said, almost to his own surprise.

* * *

A/N 1: You'll notice there's a new summary to the story. I tried to write something that more fit the story's tone as it developed. Let me know if you like it.

A/N 2: Apologies for the delay in posting. Life got in the way. Plus, this is kind of a giant chapter, without any real way to break it into two parts. There is still likely just one chapter left. A lot happened in this chapter, a lot will happen in the next.

A/N 3: As always comments/reviews/PMs are appreciated, even more so as we reach the story's apex. If someone could post to the Facebook page, that would be great too!


	21. Chuck vs The End of History

A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money on this.

* * *

_Previously in Chuck vs. The End of History_

_Chapter 1:_

_Roan: "__Revered Delegates, Madame Chair, I'm familiar with Mr. Bartowski and his team. He might oppose our means. But I believe we can convince him, convince them, of the justness of our goals. With the right persuasion, perhaps we can turn him from an adversary, to an Asset."_

_Roan: "To the End of History!"_

_Chapter 16:_

_Sarah: Nothing ever ends, Chuck._

_Chapter 15:_

_Mary: _"_W__hy do we call you the Mule? An unusual cover name, isn't it?"_

_Jeff: "Did you ever read Isaac Asimov? The Foundation series?" _

_Mary: _"I_ can't say that I have. Should I?" _

_Jeff: "Nah" _

_Chapter 18:_

_Jeff: "I __spent seven years with him. His innate goodness. His moral clarity. . . . __He's the one we need. The one that will save us all."_

_Chapter 20: _

_Stephen: "Mary, if strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." He half-smiled, then winked at Chuck._

_Mary: "You're not Obi Wan, Stephen." __She pulled the trigger._

_Within that fraction of a second, Chuck reached out and started to scream. His desperate cry accomplished nothing. The bullet flew, and penetrated Stephen's chest. Stephen fell to the floor, and blood gushed from his body._

_Chuck felt his heart almost burst from his ribcage as he turned towards his mother, smoke still rising from the gun. He looked at his father, still barely alive, jerking involuntarily upon the floor. It was too much for him. Chuck collapsed to the ground in anguish. He peaked his head up, and saw Casey and Sarah lunge towards his mother. Both were immediately tranqued by Ring soldiers. They too collapsed but, unlike his father, to a bloodless and non-eternal sleep._

_A Ring solider called out. "And the rest, what should we do with them?"_

_Mary pulled her sidearm down and holstered it. She picked up a tranq pistol and aimed it at her son. "Throw them into the apartment until we know what to do with them."_

_She fired her pistol, and Chuck felt the sting of a dart enter his neck. He grew dizzy, sleepy. All around him, the room turned black, as his drifted off into unconsciousness._

_Ten feet away from his son, with his dying breaths, Stephen flickered his eyes rapidly. The flickering sent instructions to his brain, where a tiny microchip activated. It immediately began broadcasting a signal._

_Over 3300 miles away, in a cabin located within the great forests of Montana, a giant supercomputer activated. As the monitor lit up, a three-dimensional almost holographic representation of Stephen Bartowksi appeared on screen._

_"Huh. It worked," Stephen Bartowski said, almost to his own surprise._

* * *

**Ten Hours Later**

Chuck eyes flittered awake, as he saw three fuzzy shapes hovering above him. They were pinkish-pale, one with a mesh of blond, the other two topped by brown. Slowly, his view clarified, and the shapes crystalized into the faces of Sarah, Morgan, and Casey.

"Chuck, are you ok?" Sarah asked, concerned.

Chuck pulled himself up from the floor. As he stood up, he looked around. It was a perfectly ordinary looking apartment. The room he was standing in was about 12 feet wide and 20 feet long. To his left, flush against the wall, was a brown leather couch. To his right, an entertainment cabinet with a large flatscreen television in its center. Flanking the television were shelves, filled with books and video game cartridges. The Persian rug he was standing depicted geometric patterns. Its colors were yellow and beige. Straight ahead of him, was what appeared to be a window, but the blinds were drawn.

Chuck de-focused on his surroundings, as painful thoughts flooded back into his brain. The Chamber. Walt. Roan. His mother. The "Little Child" Intersect, and its worldwide broadcast, brainwashing the globe. And his father. What happened to his father.

Chuck spoke softly, meekly, rubbing his eyes. "I just witnessed my mother, who I hadn't seen in 20 years, murder my father in cold blood. Oh, and I learned that she abandoned us to become the evil mastermind behind the Ring. The same Ring that just mind-controlled the entire planet. I am not 'ok.' I don't know if I'll ever be 'ok.'"

Sarah pulled him in for a deep, comforting hug. "I know, sweetie." She held him there for what seemed to Chuck like an eternity, but was probably only about 40 seconds.

Chuck regretfully broke-off the embrace. He left the group and, seeing the bedroom on the right, went inside. He sat down, in darkness, on the bed.

Sarah started going in after him, but Casey grabbed her arm. "Leave him be," the big man said. "He wants time to process."

Sarah shook her hand away from Casey's grasp, gave him an angry look, and followed Chuck into the darkened bedroom.

She could make out his silhouette on the bed. "Hi," she said.

"You know what the worst part is, Sarah? I froze. I just stood there, like a chump, and let her murder him. All this power. The Intersect. And I couldn't use it to save my own father." Chuck responded, answering her. His voice was soft, mournful.

"Chuck, they had guns. Lots of guns. If you had moved, you'd be dead. We'd all be dead."

"We've taken out muscle with guns before. Plenty of times," Chuck replied.

Sarah approached and sat by the bed next to him. She tenderly grasped his right hand in her left. She paused for a moment, thinking back to the Gracia Benveniste mission. A thought popped into her head.

"Chuck, try to flash now," she asked him.

"Sarah, I'm hardly in the mood. Besides, presumably, we're locked in here. What's the point?

Sarah leaned over and gave him a moist, lingering kiss on the lips. She addressed him, in Spanish.

"_Ha sido real para mi desde dijiste una nina pocita que las bailarinas reales son altas. Y te amaré hasta la ultima de mis días. Quiero casarte conmigo y tener tus hijos._"

Chuck looked on vapidly, not processing what she said.

Noticing this, Sarah paused briefly as a wicked smile crossed her lips. She added the following words: _"Y entonces, nosostros beberamos la sangre de nos enemigas, tendremos sexo encima de sus cadaveras, y bailaremos en los pasillos de Valhalla." _

Chuck continued to stare blankly at the closed blinds. "Huh?," he finally answered. "Was that Spanish? Sarah, you know I don't speak it."

Sarah nodded, then nuzzled herself against his shoulder, her hot breath warming his skin. "No. But the Intersect does. That's what I'm trying to tell you . . . the tranq that Joseph Benveniste used, remember? It shut down the Intersect for a while. I think the Ring tranqs the Buy More staff used did the same thing. You couldn't flash sweetie. You still can't. This wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

"Huh," Chuck answered, in a slightly more upbeat tone than before.

Sarah kissed him again, this time on the cheek. "Now, are you going to just sit here wallowing, or are you going to help Casey and me figure a way out of here?"

Chuck turned towards her briefly, then turned away. "Actually, I'd like a few more minutes to feel sorry for myself. And to mourn."

Chuck looked down at the wooden bedframe surrounding the mattress. He ran his finger along it, picking up dust. He brought his finger to his face, and blew the dust around the room. It heaped up into a giant ball and then scattered in all directions, disappearing from view. As he watched the dust fade away, Chuck spoke:

"For dust you are. And to dust you shall return. And the dust shall return to the earth as it was. And the spirit shall return to God, who gave it."

He sat there, Sarah beside him, pondering it all. "At least I'm not a murderer."

Sarah shot him a confused glance.

Chuck clarified, "My plan . . . . to bomb the island and kill us all. It failed. . . . Hell, I even failed at being a murderer. How pathetic is that?"

Sarah grabbed his hands and swiveled his body around to place his eyes eight inches from her own. She pierced him with a deep, comforting stare. "Listen to me right now, Chuck Bartowski. What you were planning wasn't murder. It was the right call, and you tried to save a lot of people. We just got here too late. . . that's not your fault. That's not anyone's fault, except the Ring bastards who did all this, and, maybe, the fault of MI6 for being so far up their own royal asses that they didn't realize the Ring had taken over their own government."

Chuck nodded a silent approval. Sarah kissed the top of his cheek, and let his fingers slip from her grasp. Then she pulled him into a deep hug and held on for dear life. She sat there, attached to him, neither one of them speaking, for forty minutes.

"Ok, I'm ready," Chuck announced.

They got up and existed the bedroom, emerging back into the living room to see Casey checking his watch. It wasn't working – the hands were frozen at 12:37. Morgan stood by Casey's side, looking bored.

Casey grunted. "Almost 45 minutes in the bedroom with Walker. You've got stamina Bartowski."

Morgan, having noticed the frozen watch, shot Casey a curious glance.

Sarah rebuked the Lt. Colonel. "Casey, now's not the time."

Chuck motioned "down boy" with his hands. Mustering his remaining emotional strength, he addressed the group and began peppering questions.

"Where are we?"

"Dunno," Casey responded. "We woke up a few hours before you did. None of us have cell phones. There's no kind of communications equipment. There aren't even any windows. Behind the blinds is just a large electronic monitor with a screen. We've got a choice of five views – mountains, ocean, etc."

Chuck looked at the blinds, then the television. "The monitor, the television . . . can we hack it?"

Morgan shook his head. "It's a closed system. No internet. The monitor and television are pre-programmed with content."

"Our supplies, have we taken an inventory?"

Casey motioned with his hands to both sides of the room. "We're in a prison, but it's a comfortable one. There's a bedroom and bathroom on each side of this room. Some soap, shampoo, a few towels, a couple changes of clothes. Behind me is the kitchen, with a pantry to the left. It's pretty well-stocked. If we ration ourselves properly, we've got at least two months of food.

Chuck took a gander at Sarah. He tried to speak with a faux frivolity, but a deep sadness punctured his tone. "So, a two-bed, two-bath cell, huh?"

She rested on her head on his shoulder. "Yeah, but with Morgan and Casey as roommates."

Chuck turned back towards Casey. "What about cleaning supplies? Can we build an explosive device of some kind, blow our way out of here?"

Casey shook his head. "The only door, next to the kitchen, is solid steel. My guess is that it's at least several feet worth. The walls, too, behind the plaster, are all steel. This is basically a large bank vault, made to look like an apartment. We're not getting out of here. And any attempt would just get us injured, or worse."

Morgan shot Casey a surprised look. "You, Lt. Col. John Casey are just giving up? I don't believe it."

Casey scowled. "Not giving up. Just being realistic. Our best bet is to sit tight, stay safe, and await rescue. The Ring obviously doesn't want us dead. Let's not get ourselves killed."

Chuck threw his hands in the area. "Sarah, thoughts?"

"I agree with Casey," she answered, putting her "agent face" on.

"Ok," Chuck said. "In that case, I'm going to go back into the bedroom to sit in the dark and grieve for my father some more." He turned around, and returned to the darkened room.

* * *

The days passed, one after another. Team Bartowksi weren't sure of _how many days _passed. There were neither clocks nor windows. And their only way to document the passage of time was watching the pre-programmed movies on the television. But time passed and, they presumed, the sun continued to set and the moon continued to rise.

Chuck mostly sat in a stupor but, with each day, his mood brightened a bit. He got up, played video games with Morgan, and began reading through the exhaustive supply of science fiction books provided in the entertainment case – including classics such as _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ that he'd always wanted to read, but never had the time for. Casey and, to a lesser extent, Sarah became stir crazy from being cooped-up in the apartment. But Chuck, oddly, did not. He didn't even mind the food: a monotonous diet of pasta, chickpeas, beans, quinoa, peanuts, and canned vegetables. The team's captivity had given him time to process, and to grieve. Internally, he almost laughed when he realized that this prison was the closest thing he'd had to a vacation, a real vacation, in over three years. There were no missions, no danger, no work of any kind. For the first time, ever, he and Sarah had time to be just _Chuck and Sarah_, not _Agents _Carmichael and Walker. And he couldn't remember the last time he had so much free time to spend with Morgan, doing the things he used to love doing before Bryce had sent him that nefarious email. He was in prison. Yet, in some respects, he felt freer than he had been. Free of the CIA, of the NSA, of the damned need to save the world. Even free of the Intersect. That wretched thing hadn't worked since he woke up here. Maybe it was the stress, Chuck thought. Or maybe the Ring had drugged the food. Maybe both. It didn't matter. He no longer felt the Intersect's oppressive weight crushing against his skull, or feared the searing headaches a flash would bring on.

But whenever he began to feel complacent, almost happy, Chuck thought back at the events which preceded his captivity, and shuddered. The images wouldn't leave his mind. His father's last words: a bad _Star Wars _reference. His mother, missing for twenty years, derisively laughing at Dad, then pulling the trigger. His father, absent for most of the last twelve years, falling to the floor, a pool of his own blood forming.

It was particularly bad for Chuck late at night. The images crept up on him and denied him sleep. They caused him to awake in terror, covered in his own sweat, screaming at the world. Sarah would grasp him, calm him, kiss him, and tell him that it would be ok. It wasn't, and it wouldn't be.

"_How will I explain this all to Ellie?_," Chuck thought. _"My god. Ellie. The last she knew, we we're all going off on a suicide mission. She probably thinks I'm dead. But, I'm not. I'm sitting on my ass, eating chickpeas. And what the Hell did Dad mean with the Obi Wan speech? 'Strike me down and I'll become more powerful than you could possibly imagine?' Did he think that was funny? Did he want to lighten up the mood in his last moments on Earth? It wasn't funny. And it probably ruined Star Wars for me._"

His pain haunted Sarah. She did the best she could do to ameliorate it. And, bless his heart, with all that was troubling him, he kept thinking of her, asking how _she _was doing, putting up with the team's confinement. She didn't like imprisonment, of course. There was nothing pleasant about being one of four adults trapped in about 950 sqft of space, breathing recirculated air. But, to her surprise, she found aspects of it oddly comforting. _Stockholm Syndrome_ she surmised, then dismissed the idea. _Chuck Syndrome_. They were here, together. With no secrets, no lies, and no responsibilities. Then she periodically peaked at the pantry, and its dwindling supplies. She wondered what would happen when the food ran out. The Ring didn't want them dead. But would it take steps to keep them alive? And, if so, why? Did Mary Bartowski have a soft spot for her son after all? Is that why Chuck and the rest of them were still breathing and, as far as she could tell, not enslaved by the Ring's Intersect?

Morgan's view was different. He was convinced that they all _had _been brainwashed by the Ring and that the apartment, the prison, was just a mental illusion meant to keep their sleeping minds at bay.

"Come on, guys. In the real world, our bodies are out there betraying our friends, killing people, you name it. This is just make-believe, like the Matrix," he theorized.

"Then why are you wasting your days playing _Halo_ with Bartowski?" Casey retorted.

Morgan smiled. "Well, if this is myfantasy world. I might as well enjoy it."

Casey grunted. "Your fantasy is spending weeks in a tiny apartment, doing nothing but playing video games with Bartowski?"

Morgan shrugged affirmatively.

Casey responded with another grunt. imprisonment may have been most difficult on him. He liked Bartowski and Walker. He even tolerated the gnome. But they were all driving him nuts. And the Ring left him no bourbon to dull his frustration. Plus he needed a run. And he needed to pump bullets into a target at a range. Pushups by the couch were a pour substitute.

He directed his irritation towards Morgan.

"When we run out of food, I'm eating you first."

"Come on, big guy, you don't mean that."

"Psst. . . didn't you know? Roasted nerd goes great with chickpeas and quinoa," Casey responded, deadpanned.

Morgan didn't speak to him for three days.

* * *

Seven weeks into their captivity, as their food stocks were nearly depleted, and without any warning, the apartment door opened. Outside, they found $3,000 in neatly-rolled cash, and a cellphone. Chuck's cellphone.

Chuck stared at the phone, unsure of what to do. He peaked into the hallway outside the apartment. It was an abandoned steel corridor.

Chuck bent down and picked up the phone. He had 370 missed calls, 93 new voicemails, and 501 new text messages. Scrolling through everything, one text caught his eye.

_47.619520; -113.786830. Aces, Charles, Aces_

Chuck's eyes bulged out of their sockets.

"What is it?" Sarah asked.

"It's a latitude and longitude. But it's the message . . . it's what my father always used to say to me. He's faked his death before. Could he somehow be alive?"

Casey shook his head. "Negative, we saw him bleed out. Besides, you saw what the Ring Chair, what _your mother_ did to him. Why would she let him live? Sorry Chuck. . ."

Morgan interrupted. "It could be a trap."

Chuck dismissed the idea. "We already fell into their trap. We've been the Ring's prisoners for . . . well, according to my phone, about seven weeks. They could have killed us, brainwashed us, whatever. Whatever this is, it's not a trap . . . and it's something we need to investigate."

Just then, the hallway's ceiling lighting began flickering on-and-off, in a wave. The cascade of flickering lights directed them to turn left. After some debate, the followed the lights' direction. About two hundred yards down, at another turn, the lights directed them to a door, then up three flights of stairs, then to the right, then to the second left, and ultimately to an elevator. Once they stood outside the elevator, the lights ceased flickering in a wave, and began going on-and-off in unison.

"It's Morse code," Casey commented. "It's saying 'get in,' Dad."

"Dad?" Chuck, Sarah, and Morgan answered in chorus.

Inside the elevator they went. Without pressing a button, the elevator directed them up. As the ride ended, the door opened, followed by the opening of another door. They were on the beach, on the island. Behind them, they saw that they had emerged from a "door" carved into a large rock. Chuck's cellphone began ringing. He answered it.

The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to General Diane Beckman. From its tone, it almost sounded like she cared.

"Captain Bartowski, it's good to hear your voice. I received a communication directing me to call you at, well, right now actually. Report on your status. Are you alright?"

Chuck stiffened up, and pretended to act professional. "'Alright,' ma'am, is a matter of opinion. But Lt. Col. Casey, Agent Walker, and Mr. Grimes are with me. My father . . . didn't make it. I'm not sure about Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen. We're on a beach, ma'am. It appears to be Hobbes Island."

The General answered him, respectfully. "Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen are fine. They woke up in a Miami hotel six weeks ago, with no memory of where they had been or how they got there. We're sending a chopper to pick you all up. Sit tight. A lot has changed."

* * *

Two hours later, a chopper touched down, and the team boarded it. They were greeted by a doctor and a nurse, who asked if any of them needed medical attention. None of them did. They were all each issued iPads containing news articles which documented the events of the past seven weeks.

"The Pulse," that's what the news media called it. The inexplicable hacking of every connected electronic device on the planet, the blasting of the images, the screeching hum. It appeared out of nowhere, seven weeks ago. It reappeared, at random intervals, over the next two weeks. By the time it ceased, almost the entire world had seen it.

And then, the world changed. The most immediate effects were on epileptics. Around the world, millions of them suffered seizures brought on by the Pulse's rapid-firing images. The death toll was still being counted, but most estimates put it at least 375,000.

The other effects were more surprising. But, except for a few crackpot conspiracy theorists, few drew the correct connections between the Pulse and the miraculous events which followed.

Three days after the Pulse fired, both Al Queda and Hezbollah disbanded. Thousands of fighters inexplicably just dropped their guns, abandoned their weapons, left their caves, and returned to their families. A week later, the Islamic Republic of Iran stunned the world by unilaterally recognizing Israel. The Arab League quickly followed. In Asia, China blindsided Foggy Bottom by issuing a press release recognizing the independence of Taiwan, and establishing full diplomatic relations with it.

Other consequences were even more dramatic. In North Korea, Kim Jong Il announced his resignation. Power transitioned to a military council, which immediately declared that it was disbanding the gulags, voluntarily disarming, and opening the Hermit Kingdom to the world. Their public statements begged the world for financial assistance, to help the North Korean people get back on their feet. Very soon thereafter, the world obliged. A massive aid package was quickly put together, delivering food, medicine, and needed infrastructure improvements. The trucks would come, drop off food and supplies and, in return, pick up weapons that the North Koreans were freely surrendering.

In central Africa, the decade-long Congo War, now known as the Kivu Conflict, simply ended. The soldiers on all sides refused to fight. Where battles were planned, impromptu soccer games broke out. The same story was repeated throughout the continent: hostile guerilla groups laid down their arms, child soldiers were freed, and slave-labor fueled mining operations ceased.

The Pulse's effects reached South America as well. In Columbia, FARC announced its own dissolution. Meanwhile, all the major narco gangs reached a public détente to transition into lawful agricultural cooperatives.

Two days before Team Bartowksi had been freed, a massive international conference took place in which the wealthy nations of the world pledged $600 billion to bring clean water, modern sanitation, basic healthcare, and adequate nutrition to every village worldwide.

"Peace breaks out," the world media proclaimed. "The end of hunger," the United Nations echoed.

The micro-effects were just as significant. Worldwide, homicides dropped by 94%. Rapes dropped by 87%.

No one knew why or how. It wasn't like anything magical had happened. Republicans and Democrats still bickered like schoolchildren over policy issues. Spouses still cheated with their co-workers. Assholes still cut off other drivers on the freeway. There was no utopia. There was just life. A seemingly better life.

It was a lot for Team Bartowksi to take in.

Chuck pondered the question on everyone's mind: "The Ring. Were they actually the good guys, all along? I mean, they won, right? And this is the world they created? It doesn't seem so bad, right?"

Sarah and Morgan could only nod their heads in subtle acknowledgment. Casey emitted a grunt, but even he was having the same thoughts. Casey pictured the "It's a Small World," ride at Disneyland. All those little animatronic people representing hundreds of peoples, singing and dancing merrily together. He shivered in horror.

The helicopter landed in St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

After a quick call to Ellie, and a thorough debriefing via video conference, Chuck requested permission to take a military plane out to Montana.

"Montana?," General Beckman queried. "What's there?"

"Answers," Chuck replied.

The General waived her hand to signal permission. "So be it. It's not like we're using them for wars anymore. But it will take a few days to get one down to you. Stay put, check into a nice hotel. You've earned it."

* * *

**Three Days Later**

Team Bartowski stood outside of a humble cabin located in the Flatwood National Forest. It was where the longitude and latitude coordinates had sent them.

Despite the wooden exterior, Casey's first effort to open the cabin door was thwarted by a retinal scanner.

"Here, let me try," Chuck said, placing his eyeball by the scanner. It scanned him, and a light turned green. They heard a distinct "click," and the cabin's door opened.

The interior of the cabin was rustic, plain. A wooden bench and chairs were on the left, next to a fireplace. A wooden table and small kitchen were straight ahead. But, to the right, was a gigantic electronic monitor sitting adjacent to an enormous amount of sophisticated computer equipment.

The monitor sprung to life, and a three-dimensional image of Stephen Bartowski emerged on the screen.

"Hi son."

"DAD?" Chuck answered. "IS THAT YOU? Are you . . . alive, somehow?"

The image of Stephen Bartowski took a deep breath. Or, at least, it appeared to do so. Stephen's jerky, hesitant face was strikingly lifelike, realistic.

"I am that I am," Stephen answered.

Casey growled. "What the hell does that mean?"

Stephen breathed again and tried to explain. "I can't really answer your question, not without a study on metaphysics. Let's just say that the biological cells which housed my memories, they died. But the information they stored did not die with them. I built a contingency into my own brain. At the moment of my death, all that information – those memories, emotions, afflictions, passions - got transferred here. Does that make me Stephen Bartowski, or just an AI copy of him? Truthfully, I don't really know. I just know that I feel like him . . . like me."

Morgan interjected. "Like a transporter."

"Ugh, nerd-speak," Casey commented.

Unfazed, Morgan continued. "It's like the old argument Chuck and I used to have about the transporters in Star Trek. If the beam dematerializes you, vaporizes your atoms into energy, and then turns that energy back into matter in the transporter room . . . does it really transport you? Or does it kill you and produce an exact replica?"

Stephen nodded at Morgan and went on. "You're actually pretty close to the philosophical conundrum I've been contemplating."

Stephen then turned towards his son. "Charles, I wasn't kidding. I really am more powerful than Mary could possibly imagine. It took me time, a _lot _of time, to adjust to my surroundings, to my new existence. I spent weeks just trying to starve off madness. But, the last few days, I've been able to _extend _myself beyond these servers, to the global Internet. I no longer exist just here . . . I exist _everywhere_, simultaneously. I see _everything._ I can do _everything_. It's how I arranged your release."

Chuck posed the obvious question. "The Pulse, could you have stopped it?"

Stephen shook his head. "No. By the time I _adjusted_ to this _life_, the Pulse had ended. But son . . . I can reverse it. I can go forward with our original plan, if that's what we agree upon. I can remove the damned Intersect, _every _damned Intersect, from everyone on the globe. I can make it so that thing never bothers you or anyone else again. It's just . . . is that what you want? What you truly want?"

Chuck paused, deep in thought. "I take it that removing the Intersect won't magically bring the Pulse's victims back to life, will it?"

Stephen wordlessly nodded his agreement.

Chuck looked around at his friends, at the cabin, and thought about everything that had transpired.

"Then, honestly, I don't know. What's done is done. I'm not sure that the old world was better than this one. I can't condone what Mom did, I can never forgive her . . . but, if we do this, aren't we condemning a lot of innocent people to die from war and poverty?"

Stephen nodded again. "You see my point. I've been thinking the same thing."

Stephen paused for a moment, then spoke again. "Charles, there is one favor you can do for me?"

Chuck just stammered, his facial expression indicating that Stephen should go on.

Stephen appeared visibly uncomfortable as he, or at least his image, managed to mouth the next few words:

"Turn your computer off at night, son. Or, at least, turn the camera away from the bed. I might be happy for you and Sarah . . . But there are some things that a father really, really shouldn't see."

Chuck and Sarah stared at Stephen's image on the large monitor before them, completely mortified.

* * *

Team Bartowski could not reach a decision. Or, rather, plagued by indecision, Team Bartowksi _de facto _decided to sit, wait, and observe the status quo.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Their lives changed, adjusted.

The new world, the Ring World, did not need spies or operatives.

Morgan returned to the Buy More, where he quickly became Assistant Manager.

Casey was honorably discharged, with a full pension. He quickly found work as a shooting instructor in Los Angeles. The Pulse had nearly eliminated murder. But a surprisingly large number of people still wanted to learn to target shooting as a hobby. And Casey found, to his own surprise, that he enjoyed the work.

Chuck and Sarah were not discharged. But, no longer needing the Intersect's services, the NSA and CIA had graciously agreed to loan them out to the Food and Drug Administration ("FDA"). There, the Intersect was re-purposed with Stephen's help. Instead of spotting patterns in intelligence data, the new Intersect, now coined the Intersect 3.0, helped Chuck study data from clinical trials, and analyze the properties of various pharmaceutical chemicals and biologics. It was the same basic idea: dot connecting. But, instead of trying to uncover terrorist plots, Chuck now spent his days examining promising new medical therapies.

The work was tedious, often boring. And it was far slower than the intelligence work he had been used to. But, Chuck thought, it's possible that he was accomplishing even more good. Over his first five months, Chuck identified three compounds that, he believed, would prove to be new, powerful antibiotics – a boon given the plague of antibiotic-resistant staph infections potentially on the horizon. Chuck also identified a dangerous side effect of a new heart medicine, while clearing away problems in the trials of a new lung cancer treatment.

"The problem," Chuck explained, almost giddily, "is that the drug can generate a severe adverse reaction in people who have a very specific mutation on one of their X chromosomes. But that's only 13% of the population. For the other 87%, it's remarkably safe and effective. We can scan patients for the mutation before we administer the drug."

The FDA director was thrilled by Chuck's insight, as were the drug company's executives. Both feared that the severe adverse reaction rate would lead to the sure denial of a promising therapy. Instead, the FDA quickly granted approval, enabling tens of thousands of cancer patients to access the life-saving treatment.

Chuck studied the faces of those in the clinical trials. Not killers, or terrorists, or thieves. Just sick human beings, whom he had managed to help. And there were so many tens of thousands more, whose pictures he would never see. That thought made him smile.

It took him awhile but, eventually, Chuck realized that he was happy. Happier than he ever had been. For years, ever since Bryce sent him the Intersect, he'd been losing by winning. With each successful mission, he'd fallen deeper-and-deeper into the muck. He'd been forced to lie constantly to his sister and friends, faced two years of heart-wrenching romantic uncertainty with Sarah, only to get together with her and be even more screwed by Walt's shenanigans. Of course, it wasn't true that _nothing _good came out of the past three years. After all, he met the love of his life, gained confidence, and even cobbled together the semblance of a career. But he did so only at the cost of constantly betraying his principles, risking his life, alienating his friends and family, and generally being miserable most of the time.

Now, laughing to himself, he realized that he'd won by losing. He failed to stop the Ring. And, as a consequence, the Ring's Little Child – the Pulse – had eliminated the major causes of his suffering. He was free to the CIA, the NSA, and the weekly bad guys plotting to kill him. And he no longer faced any barriers between him and Sarah, or between him and Ellie, or between him and Morgan. He could finally be himself.

It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, Chuck realized. His mother was an amoral murderer. And, while he spoke to his father more now than he had since he was a little boy, he still hadn't sorted out in his head whether he was truly interacting with Stephen Bartowski, or just a remarkably good replica of him. "Huh," Chuck thought. "I'm probably the only guy on the planet who waited until after his father died to build a good relationship with him."

Sarah assumed her new role as the protector of an FDA asset. To some degree, that meant just being around Chuck and watching him work. But Sarah also consulted on security issues for the FDA and the drug manufacturers. The Pulse had mostly eliminated murder, but hacking and corporate espionage remained real threats. Her new work wasn't as exciting as being a spy. But, as the weeks passed, Sarah found that she missed her old life less-and-less. She was tired of getting shot at, not to mention actually getting shot. And, she came to realize, she was now very close to living the normal life that she'd been slowly craving ever since she met Chuck Bartowski. They had moved in together two months ago, and had become swimmingly happy.

Life was good.

* * *

**Four Months Later**

Chuck sat at his home computer, reviewing medical data for a new antiviral therapy. Sarah was out, running errands. He had the entire apartment to himself.

Just then, unprompted, a Zoom-style video conference appeared. On his screen were the grinning faces of Roan Montgomery and Jeffrey Barnes.

"Hello, Charles," Roan said, greeting him.

Chuck looked on in disgust. "What do you want? You won. Congrats."

Roan's face turned serious, apologetic.

"Charles, don't feel bad about losing. We're spies, the best. No one has ever beaten us. No one ever will. But there are some things we need to talk about. To begin with . . . I'm sorry about your father, Charles. I tried to prevent it, so did Jeff."

Chuck snarled at him. "If by, trying to prevent it, you mean letting my mother murder him in cold blood, with only the faintest protest, then sure . . . thanks for everything you did."

Roan appeared to look down towards his shoes. His voice was broken, almost stuttering. "There was nothing we could have done, Charles. She controlled our soldiers. She wouldn't listen to us . . . And it wasn't only your father. There's more, Charles."

Chuck stared at the screen and motioned for Roan to continue.

Roan nodded his acknowledgment. "Gracia, Joseph. Their deaths were not your fault. They didn't commit suicide. Mary murdered them to protect the Ring's interests . . . just like she murdered so many others."

Jeff jumped in. "She brainwashed the entire Ring except for Roan and myself. She exempted us because we lack ambition. Neither of us want power. Everything we did, we did to help people, to make the world a better place."

Roan interrupted him, almost finishing his sentence. "Mary started out like that, once. But she lost her way, Charles. She stopped wanted to bring about the Messianic Age and instead insisted on being the Earth's personal Messiah. Her megalomania, her lust for power, her irrationality and propensity for violence . . . it's not who I am. It's not who Jeff is. And it's not what the Ring should be."

Jeff took his turn, this time completing Roan's thoughts. "But she made a mistake. She underestimated me. For 7 years, she watched me pretend to be a fool. It had been so long that she _bought_ my cover. So she let her guard down. When I, the Mule, saw an opportunity – I pounced. I took care of her. And I seized total control. She will never harm another living soul."

Chuck breathed deep. Roan and Jeff, they seemed so damned sincere. Yet they had both fooled him before. Hell, Jeff had fooled him for 7 years. He asked the obvious question: "How?"

Roan grew a slightly mischievous smirk. "Charles, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. But, let's just say that I was _intimate _with your mother for quite some time. And she always did enjoy _doggie style_."

Chuck's eyebrows rose, and his stomach turned with a mixture of disgust and odd satisfaction. He probed: "You don't mean . . ."

Jeff smiled merrily and pressed a button on the screen. A Jeffster music video started playing. Jeff and Lester were bouncing around a padded room, singing: "WHO LET THE DOGS OUT? WOOF, WOOF, WOOF WOOF." Images of dogs barking and hunting in packs then flooded the monitor.

Roan took command of the screen. "Real classy, Jeff."

Roan pressed a button and the Jeffster music video vanished. In its place was the image of a small courtyard. Mary was tied on a leash, on all fours, scampering in tight circles. She appeared to be chasing her non-existent tail.

Roan spoke. "Of course, we can remove this Intersect from her . . . restore her . . . lock her up somewhere. It's your decision Charles. You just need to do a favor for us."

Chuck took it all in. He felt that he should be disgusted with Mary's punishment, just as he was when he encountered the newly-Doggiesected Walt. But he found it difficult to care. This woman had abandoned her family, murdered Gracia and Joseph, schemed to rule the world, and then gunned down his father in cold blood. Then he looked skeptically at Roan.

"Roan, is this where you give me the whole 'Join me, and we shall rule the galaxy together' pitch? Because I didn't fall for that when my mother spewed out a pretty damn eloquent version of that speech."

Roan smiled and shook his head. He chose his next words carefully. "Charles, you mistake our intent. We don't want you to _join _us. We want you to _lead _us. Take Mary's place. And not just because you can control the Data intersect."

Jeff interrupted. "It's your heart, Chuck. Your goodness. Your pure conscience. Your damn morality. Your complete disinterest in personal glory or power. It's what Mary lacked. And it's what we need. There are going to be some tough choices that we have to make in the years to come. And there's no one better suited to make them than you. We don't want you to _join _the Ring. We want you to _be _the Ring."

Roan took his turn speaking. "The old adage is that absolute power corrupts absolutely. So who better to rule the world than the least corruptible man I've ever met? That's you, Charles."

Roan paused for a few seconds, then continued his sales presentation. "The End of History doesn't mean the end of the world. And it doesn't mean the end of conflict. Mr. Barnes and I don't trust ourselves to manage those conflicts. Nor do we trust each other. But we trust you. And we trust your friends, Sarah and Casey. Let them be your advisers. They can tell you when to act. The Intersect can run the calculations to tell you _how _to act. And your own Jiminy Cricket can instruct you, and us, when _not _to act. Help us prevent more senseless deaths, like Gracia, like Joseph, like your father. Help us bury war, violence, and poverty. Help us make the world the way it _should _be, for the benefit of all mankind."

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"Go get it," Roan instructed.

Chuck nodded, left his seat, and went to his front door, where a small cardboard package awaited him. He brought it in, and took it back to his room. He sat down again at his desk, facing his computer monitor, holding the package in his lap.

"Open it," Roan guided.

Chuck agreed. Inside was a solid gold ring, with Elvish script written on the inside. Chuck grew bewildered.

Jeff noticed Chuck's expression and laughed. "We just dropped a bombshell on you. We're not expecting an immediate answer. So we gave you a way to contact us . . . all you need to do is put the Ring on. A direct line of communication will open. But there's more. The 'One Ring' is keyed to your voice, and your voice alone."

Chuck shot Jeff a strange look. "You didn't."

Jeff smiled back. "I did. The One Ring is not just your way to communicate with us. It is also your means of assuming command of our organization. Just recite the motto, in Black Tongue of Mordor, and all our acolytes throughout the world will obey you . . . and you alone. But only the Black Tongue will work. English is insufficient."

Chuck started speaking, in English, which Jeff joined. "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them."

Chuck started at his old Buy More acquittance, his expression conveying a mix of fear and amazement. "You created an _actual _Ring of Power, didn't you?"

Jeff just smiled gleefully. "Remember Chuck, in order to work, the declaration must be recited in the Black Tongue of Mordor. I trust you are sufficiently nerdy to speak it?"

Chuck shook his head affirmatively, his mouth still wide open in shock.

Roan broke the silence. "Irrespective Jeff's theatrics, there's something we want to make absolutely clear: despite what you may think, our acolytes are not our slaves. More than 99% of their time, they live their ordinary lives, free of us. We provide _guidance _only a fraction of 1% of the time, when our interests - when humanity's interests - are at stake. Think back to what you know about the Old World, about the CIA and the NSA. Were they as generous with the private lives of their assets?"

Roan paused briefly to collect his thoughts, then spoke again. "And think carefully about our offer, Charles. Perhaps you are satisfied reviewing pharmaceutical data. But if you want to do something far greater, if you want to achieve your destiny, well, you know what to do."

* * *

**Twelve Hours Later**

Chuck couldn't sleep that night. Kissing a sleeping Sarah softly on the head, he got out of bed, grabbed his jacket, put the One Ring in his jacket pocket, and took a drive.

He ended up at the Malibu beach. He sat there, for hours, fiddling with the One Ring in his pocket. Then, just as the sun was coming up, he sensed that a familiar someone had sat down next to him.

"Funny meeting you here, stranger." Sarah asked, softly punching his shoulder.

Chuck turned, smiled at her, and then cranked his neck back to face the waves. "Just thinking about everything. You know, what happens next? I mean, are you really satisfied doing security consulting for the FDA?

Sarah smiled. "Chuck, I was ready to quit the spy game a year ago . . . nothing's changed. Being a spy is who I was. It's not who I am. And it's not what I want 'us' to be. Besides, with everything that's happened, there's no spy game left."

Chuck just nodded.

Sarah continued. "I mean, the world's at peace. That's a good thing, right?"

Chuck nodded again. They sat there, enveloped in each other's arms, oblivious to how much time had passed.

Through it all, Chuck's right hand rested in his jacket pocket, twirling the One Ring around.

Chuck looked down at Sarah's hands, and caught a glimpse of her unadorned ring finger. Inside his pocket, he played with the One Ring some more. He thought about what they could be. The relatively normal life: consulting jobs with the FDA. A picket fence in the suburbs. A couple of kids. But what would they give up? The chance to shape the destinies of nations? Save and improve lives? Preserve the peace? Guide the world as its ultimate, invisible benevolent puppet masters behind the scenes? And, if he turned down the Ring's offer, what would the consequences be? Would the new world, the Ring World, be sustained without him, Sarah, and Casey? Did he really trust _Roan and Jeff_ with that much power, after everything that happened? But did he trust himself? He was no Hobbit, and even Frodo failed by the end. Beyond that, could he really forfeit the normal-ish life that he and Sarah were enjoying?

He broke his chain of thought, and again looked at her beautiful, plain, naked finger.

The choice was theirs, but ultimately his. _'One Ring . . . two possible uses_,' he thought.

Eventually, Sarah broke the eminently comfortable silence.

"So what happens after the End of History?"

A subtle, sly smile emerged on Chuck's face. He answered her.

"Nothing ends, Sarah. Nothing ever ends."

Sarah laughed and punched him on the shoulder.

"The Watchmen ending? Seriously, Chuck? Your best answer is the Watchmen ending?"

Chuck let out a belly-laugh and pulled her closer.

"Well, it kinda fits._ And I am a nerd, after all_."

She threw him down on the sand, tackling him. Once on top, she giggled and pounced her lips upon his. Taking but the briefest respite, she issued her own command:

"Chuck, shut up and kiss me."

* * *

A/N 1: Nothing ever ends, except this Season 3 AU. Yup, in this story the Ring wins, and brings world peace. Or does it? And what choice does Chuck ultimately make? Let's just say that I'd love to hear your thoughts, in reviews, PMs, etc., about what happens next. Also, if someone could post to the Facebook group, and make it clear that this story is now complete, that would be appreciated.

A/N 2: So if anyone looks back to the opening quote of Chapter 1, you'll notice that I had the ending planned out from the very beginning. The writing was mostly a process of working backwards from the very last scene. And the opening quote was intended to be a breadcrumb to suggest to the reader that the Ring was going to win in this story . . . anyone figure it out?

A/N 3: Apologies for grammatical errors in the Spanish. Spanish was my first language, but it hasn't been my best language in over 30 years. Someone once told me that I "speak Spanish in English" - i.e., the words are Spanish, but the grammar/syntax are often English-based.

A/N 4: If it wasn't apparent from the last chapter, this story was partially inspired by Francis Fukuyama's book "The End of History and the Last Man." Yes, it's a real book. Babylon 5 was also another influence.

A/N 5: In terms of my personal writing future, I've got a potential one-shot alternative ending to Chuck: The Echo of Memory planned out. And, potentially, a one-shot COVID-19 inspired prequel to that same story. Other than that, I'm probably finished with writing stories. The mixed reception to this story plays a role in that. But, mostly, I'm out of ideas. I had two big ideas, neither of which, to my knowledge, any writer had previously attempted before: (i) a series reboot fic that picks up 10 years after the beach, but with Sarah dead and Chuck a widower and father (Echo of Memory), and (ii) a Season 3 AU in which the Ring was a cunning, morally ambiguous adversary which, in the end, may arguably have been the good guys. I've got nothing left in the tank. Beyond that, I'd like to think I accomplished at least most of my goals.

A/N 6: To anyone who read both of my long stories, I'd love to hear which you preferred, what you liked, and what you didn't - either in a review, a PM, or both (and, solely, for own personal vanity, I'd probably like to get Echo of Memory above 200 reviews). Echo of Memory was far quirkier, more philosophical, and more character-driven, End of History has a somewhat more conventional story, and is more plot driven. Both have OCs, although Abby from the Echo of Memory is more complex and three-dimensional than Walt. And both stores used what I'd like to believe were surprising but logically planned plot twists, at least some humor, and rather unusual endings. And both have typos . . . too many damn typos. I might spent some time cleaning up both stories in the next few months. Echo of Memory has some really embarrassing ones . . . sorry folks.


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